New Gods Rising
by Rorry Lamb
Summary: It storms the day Ostara Baratheon is born. The ocean beats against the shore and the wind tears at the walls of Storm's End and no one notices the magic that lingers in the air. No one notices the fierce sizzle of power bubbling beneath the babe's soft flesh. No one save Death, who sits and waits and smiles.
1. Chapter 1

They do not let her see the babe. The small, sweet thing that had been pushed from her womb still and silent. She will be given no name, she will not be remembered as anything other then one of the many stillborn babes Rhaella has given birth to. But despite this Rhaella will mourn her child.

Her sweet little dragon babe that would have brought such joy had she lived.

"My Queen?" Pycelle's voice tears through Rhaella's grief like a savage beast.

 _Let me see my baby!_ She wants to scream, _let me name her at least_.

Elaehra would have been such a lovely name.

"The King must be told." Rhaella whispers, tone hollow even to her own ears.

It will not be pretty, this she knows.

Rhaella has given him an heir. A healthy, strong heir with the Tarygeryen beauty and the potential for madness lingering in his blood. Rhaegar. Her gentle eyed boy. Her only living child of four. And Rhaella is thankful for her son's survival. Seven years old and the longer he lives the less Aerys desires a male heir. The longer Rhaegar lives the more Aerys strives for a daughter. A sister-wife, a girl of pure Valyrian blood who will wed her dragon brother.

And he will not be pleased to learn that another babe has died.

A girl at that.

Rhaella closes her eyes, tries not to think of the pain that will follow when Aerys next visits her.

"Yes, my Queen."

Pycelle leaves Rhaella to her sorrow, making sure to take the dead babe with him.

Proof for the King and his court or for Rhaella's comforts the Queen isn't sure.

But as the door closes and the silence become stiffing Rhaella allows the tears that have been building to fall.

~X~

Cassana cries out, fingers clenching around the thin blanket covering the birthing bed, sweat dripping down her nose.

This birth is harder than her last ones. Distantly, Cassana wonders if her babe will be deformed or dead when it finally makes it way from between her legs. She hopes not. Cassana loves this babe as she loves Robert and Stannis. The thought of this babe coming into the world dead makes something in Cassana clench.

"You're doing well, my Lady!" The new maestor, Kollion if Cassana heard correctly, encourages.

But his eyes are wary and his brow is furrowed.

Cassana squares her jaw, rolls back her shoulders, and pushes.

She will not die in this bed. Her babe will not die here either. Cassana will give birth to a healthy babe, boy or girl, and she will love her child no matter what shape it takes. Deformed or no, ugly or beautiful. It will be her babe and Cassana will love it just as she loves Robert and Stannis.

Cassana's agony bleeds into her voice as she screams.

"I see the head, my Lady!"

The tears that pour from her eyes mix with the sweat dampening her cheeks.

 _Just a bit more_ , she tells herself, _just a bit more_.

It's almost unbearable, this pain. So unlike the pain she felt during the birth of her sons. Her old Septa would have claimed that it was a sign. Would have claimed that Cassana's babe was going to be a warrior. Strong and fierce and untamable.

Cassana always thought Ayleen's teachings were a load of horse shit... But at this rate Cassana certainly wouldn't be surprised if her old Septa was right about such things.

And when the dark haired Lady's screams are drowned out by the wail of a babe Cassana can't help the relief that floods through her.

Alive. Alive and well.

"A girl, my Lady." Kollion says.

"Is she healthy?" Cassana demands, lifting up a bit more to look at the babe in the Maester's arms.

All she can see is a mess of white blankets and Kollion's smiling eyes.

"Healthy and hardy, my Lady."

"I want to hold her. Please."

 _Let me see my babe_.

Kollion nods once before moving to stand at Cassana's side. One of the attending maids helps her sit back against the headboard and pillows, and once she's settled Kollion reaches out to place her babe, her _daughter_ , in her arms.

She's beautiful.

Dark skinned, like Cassana and her brothers, with a patch of dark curls atop her head and unsettled eyes that will either end up being the glorious blue of the Baratheon's or the gentle brown of the Estermonts. Her features are still relatively undefined, and maybe Cassana is biased, but she thinks that this little girl could one day grow to have a face to send entire continents into war.

"I will inform Lord Baratheon." Kollion says, motioning for the maids to follow.

Cassana doesn't even acknowledge him, too busy memorizing the curve of her daughter's nose and the feel of her tiny fingers gripping Cassana's finger.

The door to the birthing room closes with a gentle click.

"You," Cassana whispers, "are absolutely beautiful."

Her babe cries out, for food or for some other reason Cassana isn't sure. But she pulls her daughter close and presses gentle kisses against pink flesh. Her daughter fusses, cries, her little fingers tightening around sweat soaked hair.

She pulls, hard, and Cassa winces.

"You need a name." Cassana says, carefully removing her daughter's fingers. "Something strong, just as strong as you."

But what to name her? Something of Baratheon origins to be sure.

Perhaps Melinsa, or Beylee, or Teliya.

Cassana shakes her head.

None of those.

"Ostara." Cassana decides after a long moment. "You will be Ostara."

And the babe in her arms doesn't seem to have understood.

Cassana never expected her too.

~X~

"She is healthy?" Steffon demands, staring down at the babe tucked safely in his arms.

Kollion nods slowly. "As healthy as your last."

Steffon nods slowly before turning his attention back to Ostara. Cassana isn't sure what her Lordly husband thinks of his daughter, oh, she's certain Steffon doesn't hate the babe... But she is not a male and therefor cannot continue the Baratheon name.

But they have two sons already.

The Baratheon line will not end with Ostara and thus Steffon will have no true reason to hate her.

"What is her name?" Steffon asks, eyes drifting from Ostara to Cassana, something like hesitant devotion shining in his brilliantly blue gaze.

"I have named her Ostara." Cassana replies, still tired from the long hours spent in labor.

 _Ostara Baratheon, first of her name._

Cassana likes the sound of it.

Apparently, Steffon does too. Because he nods his head and offers a small smile to the babe in his arms before passing her over to the wet nurse. Cassana bites back the urge to rip her daughter from the woman's grasp.

"Are you well, my love?"

"I'm tired."

"I would suspect so... Kollion said Ostara's birth was harder than the others."

"Harder, yes. Unbearable, no."

"I'm glad to hear."

Steffon lowers himself into the seat beside Cassana's bed. Soon she will be moved, helped from the birthing chamber to the chambers she and Steffon share. But she's still a bit too weak and it would be unwise to move her in such a state. So Steffon sits and smiles down at at her before offering her a cup of water that Kollion has left for them.

"The boys will be excited." Steffon says, reaching out to curl his fingers around her own.

"You've told them then," Cassana remarks, "about their sister."

"Robert is already declaring to be her sworn shield."

"He's five... Does he even know what that means?" Cassana laughs.

"Apparently, he's already demanding that I let him see the two of you."

"And Stannis?" Cassana asks.

"Annoyed with Robert, I'd reckon. He's so used to being alone and now that you've given birth, and I'm with you, Stannis is spending more time with Robert now then he has in the three years of his life." Steffon chortles.

Cassana smiles, dropping her head back to rest against the headboard.

"He'll be fine." Cassana decides.

"Yes... I think this will be good for him. Robert might teach the boy to have _fun_."

Cassana laughs a bit at that but doesn't say anything.

Beyond the walls of Storm's End the sea rages and the sky screams.

A storm unlike anything those of the Storm Lands have ever before witnessed.

And the magic that swirls in the air, the magic that causes the waves to beat against the cliff side and the thunder to shake the very foundations of the Keep, goes unnoticed to all save the small babe who suckles at her wet nurse's breast and the shadowing creature lingering in the corner nearest the door.

The creature that smells of carrion flowers. The creature that gazes upon Ostara as if seeing an old friend.

The tall, shadow creature that holds a silver haired babe tightly in his grasp.

~X~

The news of Ostara Baratheon's birth reaches King's Landing within a week and Rhaella fings herself conflicted. She's glad for Cassana, it's terrible to lose a babe and she would not wish that pain on anyone... But she's also angry. Because that could have been her. Why was't it her? She and Lady Baratheon are not so different. They did everything right, the Maesters kept their eyes on the growth of the children, they did what they were told to do and ate what was expected of them.

So why did Elaehra die while Ostara lives?

Rhaella swallows thickly.

Aerys will not be pleased.

He's already visited her, the proof hidden beneath creams from Essos and the silks of her gown. If he becomes angry with the birth of the Baratheon girl... His treatment of Rhaella will not be merciful. Especially when the Baratheons and Targaryens share blood. Frankly, Aerys has always been a suspicious man and it's no secret he favors Steffon due to the small bit of Targaryen blood flowing in the man's veins, which will make any suspected betrayals all the worse.

With a sigh Rhaella places her sewing to the side, opting instead to sit and enjoy the summer wind that carries the scent of wet dirt and roses to Rhaella's nose.

It's been the first time in days that Rhaella has been able to step foot outside the keep due to the terrible storm that had rolled across the land. Even now there are patches of wet ground littering the gardens.

Rhaella thinks it's... Pleasant.

But a quick glance up a the sky has Rhaella frowning. In the far distance she can just see the rolling black clouds that make up the skies of the Storm Lands as of late. Which Rhaella finds oddly amusing for a number of reasons. However, it would appear that the storms developing in the Storm Lands will soon make their way to King's Landing and Rhaella sighs.

She's grown rather tired of rain and chill.

With a sigh the Queen stands, barely noting that Sir Gerold Hightower has moved to rest a hand on his blade, and gathers her sewing.

And her King's Guard Knight says nothing as Rhaella leads them back into the Red Keep.

Back to the husband who will have likely been informed of Ostara Baratheon's birth.


	2. Chapter 2

A year passes, two, and Ostara Baratheon is officially deemed healthy enough to be taken before the court.

Two years old and it's quite obvious she will be rather beautiful when she's older. With her mother's dark flesh and her father's wild array of dark curls adorning her head like an obsidian crown but it is the girl's eyes that hold the attention of the court. Large and of a color similar to the amethyst jewels Steffon gifted Cassana with months prior, perhaps a few shades lighter. The color of those eyes, so startlingly vibrant and rich, distract those who look into them from seeing the storm that lingers there. And when the small babe smiles those brilliant eyes light with joy and the world around Kollion stutters for the briefest of moments.

Yes, once the roundness of youth leaves her Ostara Baratheon will be a Lady sought after by many.

Perhaps not beautiful in the way Rhaella Targaryen or Catelyn Tully or Ashara Dayne are beautiful.

But beautiful none the less.

And Steffon must see it for his eyes glance warily about the room, as if searching for the fool who will comment on such beauty manifesting in a child so young. But Kollion thinks his Lord has nothing to worry about. For Robert Baratheon stands at his mother's side, imitating the knights that stand about the room as best he can, silently daring anyone to challenge him or insult his newest sibling. To Cassana's other side stands Stannis, who gazes down at his sister with something like veiled curiosity burning bright in his gaze.

Kollion purses his lips, watching as the toddler tugs experimentally at her mother's necklace. Cassana doesn't seem to mind though. She merely pulls the delicate chain from Ostara's grasp and hands her something a bit sturdier.

"Stannis!" The child squeals, abandoning her mother's offering in favor of reaching out for her brother.

Another thing about Ostara Baratheon that Kollion finds strange.

Her speech patterns are not that of a child her age. Already, the girl can speak in full sentences and make somewhat sound arguments. And for a child as young as she is... Well, it shouldn't be possible.

"Ostara." Stannis greets, oddly somber for a boy of five.

His sister giggles before leaning forward, closer to the boy.

Kollion watches as the youngest son carefully avoids her flailing arms and grasping hands. Finding the interaction between the two oddly endearing. Where Robert is so very open with his affection for Ostara, so very forceful with it, Stannis is slower to show his. While Robert openly plays with Ostara, whether it be with her dolls or running about the Keep, Stannis does not play. Instead he'll creep into her room in the dead of night and read to her.

More than once Kollion or Steffon or Cassana have stepped into Ostara's nursery expecting to find a wailing babe and are instead greeted with the sight of Stannis curled up in the chair placed beside Ostara's crib, eyes drooping, voice trailing off, the book once held so carefully falling from between his fingers.

And as Kollion watches Stannis now he begins to wonder if perhaps Stannis' affection for Ostara holds more basis than Robert's.

~X~

Being a child again is strange. Things that used to be so easy are extremely difficult to manage now. Her legs don't carry her with the same fluidity she remembers, her tongue gets caught up in her mouth when she tries to use big words, and when you're a child no one really listens to you.

Of course Ostara is a Baratheon and as the beloved daughter of Steffon Baratheon she has a certain amount of command but... It's different.

She's different.

Because it's not just Ostara living in her head. Oh, she's still Ostara Baratheon but... But she's not entirely Ostara either. She's Hermione Granger too.

Ostara _remembers_ being Hermione Granger.

Remembers a a scarlet train and two boys and magic flowing hot and fierce in her veins.

And it doesn't end there.

Years worth of memories that are Hermione Granger's linger in the back of Ostara's mind, popping up whenever they please, leaving Ostara with a throbbing head and no way to tell anyone what's happening. Because who would believe her anyway?

So Ostara bites her tongue, lets the memories come when they please, and tries not to mourn her old life.

It ended... Bloody.

Ostara looks away from the doll she'd been playing with in favor of looking up at her mother. Cassana Baratheon is nothing like Monica Granger. Cassana is harder in a way, less quiet, less distant. And there's a swell of affection that blossoms in Ostara's chest whenever she looks at the older woman. It's the same affection that appears whenever Ostara looks at Robert or Stannis or Steffon. Her family.

This is her family now.

Hermione Granger is dead. Dead and buried, her body rotting in a memorialized grave. Those that knew her best will mourn her and those who barely knew her at all will memorialize her for what she did during the war. Hermione died in that strange world of magic and was reborn in this body.

Ostara turns her attention back to the doll.

Whether or not she likes it Ostara cannot return to being Hermione Granger. There's no going back. Not this time.

And oddly enough, Ostara doesn't dread the thought.

~X~

She's well into her fourth year when Cassana brings her to the Godswood. Four years old and her Mother takes her hand and leads her through the forest of ancient trees that stretch up toward the sky.

"Come along, my love." Cassana urges, leading Ostara to the large weirwood tree in the center of the woods.

The face in the tree is solemn, almost mournful. Ostara tries not to think about how often she's seen similar expressions on the faces of her friends.

Ostara turns her face away, eyes flicking from tree to tree, but never to the tree that stares down at them.

Her mother lowers herself onto the ground before the weirwood tree, hands in her lap, eyes closed.

Something dark moves in the corner of Ostara's eye.

And when she turns her head to look at whatever it is lingering there she finds a tall, shadowy figure hiding in the trees.

She has never seen this man before, has never spoken to him, but Ostara knows him. Recognizes him. For he is the one that took Hermione Granger in his arms and lead her to the path that would end with Ostara Baratheon.

 _Hello, sweet faced warrior._

Ostara blinks.

The man is gone.

~X~

He comes again later that evening when Storm's End is quiet and the wind outside taps ever so gently at Ostara's window. Ostara should be sleeping. But it's so much easier to light a candle and hold it in such a way that she can read the tome she took from the library without burning the pages or spilling wax upon it.

Her love of books will get her into trouble one of these days, Ostara is sure.

 _Hello, gentle eyed lion._

Ostara jumps, eyes ripping away from the book in her lap and to the shadowy mass standing near her window.

"Hello, Phil."

The name comes unbidden, her mouth moving without Ostara putting any conscious effort into it.

"Why are you here?" Ostara demands, voice trembling.

She's already died once. Body broken and battered, throat torn open, choking on the blood that can't escape her body fast enough. No one had been able to stop the bleeding, sometimes Ostara dreams of it. Of the screams and the remaining Death Eaters and throwing herself in front of Harry Potter- in brother in all but blood- when a streak of dull blue light shot from a masked wizard's wand.

She does not want to die like that again.

 _Do not cry, little lion._

"I am not a lion." Ostara sniffles, unable to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

The shadow tilts its head slightly to the left, almost like a great bird.

"I am a Stag."

 _No._

Indignation burns hot in Ostara's chest.

How dare he. How dare he come to her now, after putting her in this body and giving her back her memories of a life long since over. How dare he harass her now. Why can't he just leave her alone? Hermione did her task. She protected Harry Potter, she died for Harry Potter, isn't that enough? Hasn't Hermione earned some semblance of peace?

Suddenly the shadow reaches out, Ostara cringes, but he does not move to touch her. He merely reaches into his robes and pulls something out, then he's offering it to Ostara.

Like a Septon offering one of The Seven an offering.

And Ostara recognizes it instantly.

Long, shiny wood gleams in the dim light of the candle still clasped in Ostara's hand.

" _My wand?_ " She finds herself asking.

 _Every warrior needs a weapon_.

Without realizing Ostara reaches out and takes her wand from bony fingers, sighing softly when that all too familiar warmth spreads through her bones. And when she goes to thank the shadow standing in her bedroom he's already long gone.

~X~

"What are you reading?" Steffon asks, staring down at the little girl curled up in the grass beneath one of the trees in the courtyard.

Sunlight trickles down between the leaves, it catches the gold thread in Ostara's dress and makes her skin gleam. Stannis blinks slowly. She looks... Almost otherworldly. The six year old swallows thickly as he lowers himself into the grass beside his sister.

"The History of House Baratheon." Ostara remarks, not bothering to look up from her book.

Stannis nods slowly, glancing over at the small words written there.

He frowns.

Ostara has always been strange. Using big words and reading thick tomes and understand exactly what their father or mother is saying even when Robert doesn't. But while Stannis knows his sister is different from both himself and Robert, it's so very obvious, he still thinks that the strangest thing about Ostara are her eyes.

It has nothing to do with the color, or the dark smears of purple that sometimes show up there, it's the fact that they... They look _old_.

Or, at least, that's what his mother had said just last week.

Stannis isn't sure what that means, not entirely anyway, but if he had to guess Stannis would say it has something to do with the look she gets. Stannis doesn't quite understand what it means... But sometimes he'll meet Ostara's gaze and think he's staring at someone else.

They look older almost.

Like she's seen something upsetting at some point in her life.

Which is ridiculous because she's only four and hasn't set foot outside the walls surrounding Storm's End.

"That's too big for you." Stannis says.

"No, it's not. I got it from Maester Kollion. He said I was perfectly capable of reading it."

Something blooms in Stannis' gut. It tastes like jealousy. But it dies when Ostara moves to put the book in both of their laps.

"Would you like me to read it to you?" Ostara inquires.

There is no malice in her eyes, no sneer, no taunting twist of her mouth. She looks genuine. Like she truly wishes to spend time with him. Stannis finds himself nodding and Ostara's eyes light up as her smile pulls at her mouth.

Stannis nods curtly before leaning back against the trunk of the tree behind him.

~X~

"A raven has arrived from King's Landing." Cassana remarks, offering the letter to her Lordly Husband.

Steffon looks up from whatever he'd been reading, careful not to jostle the little girl sleeping peacefully in his lap, and takes the offered letter. Breaking the seal is easy enough, Ostara's eyes flutter but do not open entirely.

Cassana watches Steffon as he adjusts Ostara. Her little fingers are smudged with ink and there are a few pieces of scattered parchment that has childish writing scrawled across them. Cassana smiles.

"Would you like me to take her?" Cassana inquires.

"Please." Steffon says, leaning back slightly so Cassana can lift their daughter out of his lap. "My thanks."

"What does the King want?" Cassana asks after she's situated Ostara on her hip.

Steffon frowns, eyes dragging down the letter again and again and then once more.

He sighs, "It's from Tywin Lannister. It would appear Rhaella has lost yet another babe."

"Is she alright?"

"Tywin says she is expected to make a full recovery." Steffon remarks softly.

Then his eyes are off of the letter and situated firmly upon Ostara's sleeping form. Cassana swallows. She and Rhaella have never been close but Cassana likes to think the two of them are at least friendly with one another. How could they not be when Aerys and Steffon are so close?

"Why has Lord Tywin sent you such a letter?" Cassana demands.

And Steffon's eyes turn chilly as he looks up to meet her eye.

"He wants us to come to King's Landing for Prince Rhaegar's name's day celebration."


	3. Chapter 3

In the end it's Steffon that learns of Ostara's abilities. Which is surprising. Because Ostara is always so _careful_. Following a set of rules influenced by both Hermione Granger's memories and what Ostara has witnessed.

Keep your wand hidden but always on you.

Never perform magic in front of non-magical beings.

Don't tell anyone about magic.

Don't tell anyone _you_ have magic.

Because telling people, even those you trust, that you have magic? In this world, it can get you killed.

People don't have magic here. The closest form of it coming from the Dragons and the Children and the Undying Ones. But even then, the magic in this world is different in comparison to Ostara's. Because Ostara's magic is Hermione's magic and it's different.

And in this place different can get you killed.

So Ostara tries to be discrete. She practices her magic in secret and when she's with her family or in a public setting Ostara keeps her wand tucked in her stocking or somewhere else less conspicuous.

But she's not perfect.

They'll be leaving for King's Landing in a few days. Prince Rhaegar will be turning eleven soon and the King has invited them, in a sense, to attend the name's day celebration. It will take the Baratheon's roughly a week and a half to reach King's Landing. And that's if they travel at a fairly reasonable pace. But the Keep is still in a state of frenzy.

Ostara has been left to herself for the most part.

Which is why she takes the time to practice her magic.

Nothing too difficult, a simple shrinking spell so that she can bring the books she's currently reading with her to King's Landing.

And she's halfway through her stack and getting ready to shrink a book of what can essentially be considered legends when she realizes the door has swung open. But there isn't any time to stop the spells, and even if she did stop it Ostara still has several shrunken books littered across the floor.

"Ostara?"

The young girl whips around, her wand hand hidden behind her back, eyes wide. "Papa!" She gasps out, expecting to have seen a servant or perhaps one of her brothers.

Steffon blinks almost owlishly, blue eyes drifting from the large tomes to the shrunken ones on the floor and the hand hidden behind her back. Something hardens in his gaze. It looks like suspicion.

"What are you hiding, Ostara?"

Ostara purses her lips.

It's not that her father would ever do anything too her. He loves her just as much as Wendell had loved Hermione. If not more so. So no, Ostara doesn't think her father woudl ever hurt her for her magic but... Hermione's memories tell her that witches, even innocent non-magical women that were accused, were hunted down and burned or hanged, sometimes tortured until they confessed.

Would that happen to her if anyone found out?

Ostara swallows thickly, wishing almost desperately that she could melt into the ground and disappear forever.

Her father frowns, as if sensing her building panic, and quietly shuts the door. Once the latch clicks into place Steffon Baratheon makes his way across the room and kneels before Ostara.

"What are you hiding, Little Doe?" Her father asks, gentle and kind.

There is nothing demanding in his tone, nothing cruel. Ostara doesn't get the impression that he'll blacken her eye if she doesn't answer him.

Ostara takes a deep shuddering breath to steady her nerves before reaching out to wave her wand at the shrunken books. They float off the ground, carried by the spell Hermione learned in one of her Charms classes, and slowly lower themselves into the trunk where her clothes have been packed away. She says nothing as the larger books follow, covering their smaller counterparts.

The lid of the trunk slams shut and locks.

Steffon blinks once, twice, three times before turning his attention back to Ostara.

His eyes burn.

"How long have you been able to do this?" He demands.

"For a while now, Papa." Ostara whispers, head bowed.

She cannot look at those eyes. The eyes that used to dance whenever he saw her, the eyes that practically glow when her father smiles. Ostara cannot bare to see that light die out.

Of course, she might just have too. For Steffon places both hands upon his daughter's cheeks and guides her face up with gentle firmness.

"Do not despair, sweet girl." Steffon says, tone soothing and warm, "I do not hate you for this not do I fear what you can do?"

"Truly?"

Steffon offers a thin smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and says, "This gift of yours, Ostara, it is dangerous. People will covet you, wish to own you, or wish to harm you."

Ostara understands.

"What should I do?" Ostara demands, lip trembling just slightly.

Her father's eyes soften and he reaches out to pull Ostara close.

"You learn, Ostara." Steffon whispers as he pulls away, "You protect yourself."

He does not tell her to hide or stop doing magic.

Steffon Baratheon merely tells his child to learn control.

And it's this moment that cements the affection Ostara feels for her father.

Because of all the people in this world her father will always be there for her. He will not always be there to keep her safe and one day she will leave Storm's End. But Steffon Baratheon will always be Ostara's greatest supporter.

He will rally his banner-men for her, declare war for her, destroy entire worlds for her.

And Ostara can't help the watery smile that makes its way across her face as she realizes that she would do the exact same thing for him.

~X~

"You seem distracted." Cassana murmurs as she rolls to face Steffon.

"How can I not be? You're terribly distracting, my love." Steffon replies, finger idly tracing the soft flesh of his wife's breast.

"As acceptable as I find your answer," Cassana laughs, "I don't believe you for a second."

Steffon laughs, leaning over to press his face again the curve of his wive's neck. She smells like the rose oils her personal maid had rubbed into her flesh when Cassana bathed mere hours ago.

"It's nothing, my love. Something to do with Ostara." Steffon whispers.

And beneath his hands and lips Cassana tenses a great deal. Body going taught with her worry.

"Ostara? Is she alright?"

"She's perfectly fine," Steffon tries to soothe, "merely wanted to take her books with her. I fear she may leave with half of the King's library tucked away in her bag."

He's not sure why he lies to Cassana. Their's isn't a relationship built on lies. But Steffon thinks telling Cassana about Ostara's magic might be... Unwise. Not that she'd ever expose their daughter, not if it meant harming her, but he thinks that if Cassana were to know she'd grow too protective of Ostara. And then people would begin asking questions.

And that would be a very bad thing.

So Steffon lies. He'll continue to lie. He'll lie until the lies feel like truth and the only people who will know any different will be himself and Ostara.

Because the truth is dangerous, yes, but something deep down- something that makes him feel like pray being stalked- tells him that Ostara is the most dangerous.

Most dangerous by far.

~X~

Ostara's never ridden in the Wheel House before. She's never been away from Storm's End before either. This in a completely new experience but Ostara doesn't find herself discomforted by it.

In fact, she kind of likes it.

Riding in the Wheel House with her mother and brothers isn't necessarily the most enjoyable way to travel. But it's better than a broom stick and similar enough to a car that Ostara finds it rather comfortable. However, Ostara's young and she wants to stretch her legs and she can't because they won't be stopping until absolutely necessary.

Because of course.

Ostara sighs, turning her attention to look out the window.

 _I wish Harry or Ron were here_ , Ostara finds herself thinking, _they'd keep me entertained_.

The four year old scowls a bit.

She needs to stop thinking about them. About everything to do with Hermione Granger really. They aren't here. They don't even know she's still alive... Kind of? And even if they did know how would they get back to her? It's not like Ostara knows what kind of magic brought her here instead of dumping her in whatever afterlife justice she brought upon herself over the years.

Still... She misses them.

Ron and Harry specifically.

Misses the laughter and the danger and the gentle touches and the tight embraces and the looks passed between them when a battle ended and they were still alive.

Ostara blinks slowly, fighting back tears she didn't even know were there.

Across from her Robert is bothering Stannis, making too much of a commotion over something trivial, and their mother is trying to reign in her son. Ostara turns her attention to her brothers, thankful for the distraction, and sighs.

"Please stop." She half begs causing Robert to still and Stannis to stiffen. "You're being so terribly loud."

Robert smiles, a wicked thing that makes Ostara think Slytherin.

"Stara, would you like a sweet?" Robert asks, pulling a small sack from the seat behind him and offering it to his sister.

Ostara takes it, pulling the cord keeping the bag closed loose, and putting her fingers insider. She pulls out a candied orange peel.

"Thank you, Robert." Ostara says before popping the treat into her mouth.

"Anything for you dear sister." Robert laughs.

And Ostara wonders why Stannis looks so put out over Rober's behavior. It's nothing new. But she doesn't ask, because Stannis is always put out and he's always a bit grouchy. Especially when it comes to Robert.

So the four year old leans back to rest her head against the pillows behind her and allows her eyes to drift to the window where beyond the world is green and brown and something that reminds her vaguely of the Forbidden Forest.

Ostara rips her eyes away with a scowl.

She really needs to stop associating things with Hermione Granger's past life.

~X~

King's Landing smells awful.

Sewage in the streets, unwashed bodies, rotting bodies festering in the mid day sun.

It's repulsive.

Ostara, unable to help herself, coughs and gags as she presses the sleeve of her dress against her nose and mouth. Across from her Robert and Stannis aren't much better. The three of them try to keep quiet but they're not able to keep their gags hidden from their mother.

"Hush now, you mustn't make such faces before the King." Cassana scolds, glancing out the window of the wheel house to the Red Keep casting its dark shadow upon them.

 _Yes_ , Ostara thinks, _because we must be on our very best behavior_.

If they aren't... Well, Ostara doesn't want to find out if the rumors of the King's growing madness are true.

She's already dealt with one megalomaniac and his cronies. Hermione Granger carried the scars from the tine she was fifteen until she was thirty-seven and her life was cut short by a curse of unidentifiable origins.

Ostara absently rubs her thumb over the sleeve of her left arm. It's smooth, no puckered flesh causing the fabric of her sleeve to rise up slightly. Sometimes that unnerves her. Because having Hermione Granger's memories and being Hermione Granger as well as being Ostara gets a bit confusing. Especially when Ostara has the memories of the pain that came with the scar but no actual scar itself.

Once, fairly recently actually, Robert had asked why Ostara would occasionally rub at her arm or at the spot just to the right of her collarbone. She'd just told him that she had an itch and that it was nothing to worry about. Robert wouldn't believe her if Ostara told him the truth.

Who would?

Her father, maybe, but aside from him? Ostara doubts anyone would actually take her seriously.

With a tired sigh Ostara turns her attention away from the gaunt faces and skinny bodies lingering in the streets around them.

~X~

"Lord Baratheon, I see you've arrived." A tall, blond man remarks as he comes to stand before Steffon and Cassana.

"And here I thought you missed me," Steffon greets amiably, "Old friend."

 _Old friend?_

Ostara tilts her head up to stare at her father's supposed friend, a word she's learned means very little to anyone in this world, and swallows thickly.

Compared to her, or Robert or Stannis, this old friend of her father's is a giant of a man. Taller than her father by at least half a head and broad. Muscled arms, powerful legs, eyes so green they make Ostara think of Harry Potter and sharper than a cursed blade. His face is the face of a man who would have ended the Wizarding Wars before they even began with about as much effort as it takes Ostara to cast a Lumos.

"Your presence here at King's Landing is more than welcomed." The blond man intones almost pleasantly.

And then her father is reaching out to pull the blond man into a tight embrace.

"It is good to see you as well, Tywin." Steffon says, then he's turning to gesture at Ostara. "You've yet to meet my youngest."

Ostara tries not to shrink away from the intensity of the man's eyes as she offers a curtsy like her Septa told her to do when she meets the royal family or any other family of substantial worth.

The blond, Tywin, stares at her for a long moment before offering a polite nod.

"And what is your name?" Tywin demands.

"Ostara Baratheon, My Lord." She manages to say.

She continues to stare at Tywin. Wonders if his eyes can be classified as Slytherin green or Killing Curse green. Ostara thinks his eyes are too bright for either but... Something about them makes her think _snake in the grass_.

"A please." Tywin then turns his attention to Cassana, offering a chaste kiss upon her hand and a somewhat pleasant, "Lady Baratheon, I'm glad to see you in good health."

Cassana smiles, "I'm thankful for it. How if your lady wife? I hear she is expecting a babe soon."

"Yes," Tywin says, "Our first. The Maester says she is the epitome of health."

"And I am thankful for it. Joanna is a dear friend."

Ostara doubts that.

Not once in her four years has Ostara heard mention of whatever relationship Cassana and Joanna share. But maybe things are different here. When Ostara thinks Dear _Friend_ she thinks of Harry and Ron and sneaking out to fight battles they're wholly unprepared for because Harry needed them. What Casana means by _Dear Friend_ might be the relationship Padma and Lavender had.

A friendship, yes, but one built more out of convenience than anything else.

Tywin's smile is shattered glass.

Sharp and cutting.

"The King wants an audience as soon as possible. The servants will ensure your trunks are taken to your rooms." Tywin intones.

Then he's gone, turning on his heel and striding off into the Red Keep, the golden thread in his doublet glinting dully in the mid-morning sun.

~X~

Ostara is told to keep her eyes downcast long before they reach the throne room and the look in her father's eyes when he whispers such a command to her is the only thing keeping Ostara from opening her mouth and demanding why.

She knows why.

Rhaella Targaryen has yet to birth a babe that lives past infancy while Cassana has birthed three already, there must be a sort of bitterness for that alone. But for one of Steffon's children, a first cousin once removed at that, to carry a Targaryen trait? Well, it's enough to make Ostara _nervous_ as she makes her way toward the Iron Throne.

It's something Voldemort would have liked. The display of power, the reminder that those who'd wielded those swords had been crushed or burned by the might of the Targaryens. Ostara finds it unsettling.

But she finds the man sitting on the throne even more so.

King Aerys might have been fairly attractive once with his aristocratic features and silvery hair that would have shamed Malfoy's, but now he's little more than a shadow of that potential beauty. His hair is still shiny, his face is not gaunt, his frame is still sleekly muscled. It is the King's eyes that make Ostara nervous.

They're clouded, the purple they once were offset by the purple smears beneath his eyes making them appear more blue than anything else. And they dart from person to person, growing more agitated with each passing second.

Ostara's skin crawls and she thinks, _Bellatrix_.

"My King, House Baratheon is honored to receive and invitation to the celebration of your son's name day."

The King smiles a bit.

"Cousin." He greets before glancing over the party of Baratheons.

Cassana with her dress of chocolate brown silk and fine green embroidery.

Robert with his wide blue eyes and excited trembling.

Stannis with his ever present blankness.

And Ostara.

His eyes linger. Dragging up and down, searching for a flaw or obvious weakness to mock Steffon with. He will find none. Ostara made sure of that before she came, layering her clothes with charms and wrangling her wild mass of hair into something similar to a proper Southern look.

The King scowls.

Ostara curtsies alongside the rest of her family, glancing up at the king from beneath her lashes.

Someone moves, drawing Ostara's attention away from the Viper King and too the woman sitting on the bench beside it.

She's... She's absolutely stunning.

Silver curls and violet eyes and the king of face that makes Ostara think of Helen of Troy of Aphrodite.

Rhaella Targaryen, for surely it must be, is staring right at her. Those large purple eyes of her sad and yearning. Beside her, stands a silver haired boy and Ostara thinks she might see something of herself in his eyes.

It has nothing to do with the similarity of their coloring.

But he will be just as beautiful as his mother is, Ostara is sure, if the sharpness of his features is anything to go by.

Ostara looks away before anyone can notice her staring.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ostara, darling, lift your arms."

The four year old does as she's told, lifting her arms high above her head so that her mother can slip a gown over Ostara's head. Once her arms are through the sleeves and her head is free Ostara lowers her arms to allow her mother to lace up the back. And as Cassana works Ostara stares at her reflection in the mirror hanging above her mothers vanity.

She likes the dress. It's a deep rose pink with silvery thread racing down her arms like lightning bolts. A pretty thing indeed... And it doesn't clash too terribly with her eyes.

Her mother smiles as she smooths her hand over the back of Ostara's dress.

"You must be on your very best behavior tonight." Cassana says, turning her attention away from the dress and to the wild mass of Ostara's hair.

"Yes, mamma." Ostara does not move as her mother begins weaving her hair into a braid.

Cassana ties the end off with a silver ribbon and presses a chaste kiss to Ostara's cheek.

"If all goes well," Her mother murmurs more to herself than Ostara, "His Grace will not..."

She catches herself, blushing hard and shaking her head slightly. When she notices Ostara staring at her through the mirror Cassana's grin turns impish and she spins Ostara around to face her.

"Tomorrow we will be breaking our fast with Queen Rhaella. I think you'll enjoy her company, darling, she is such a kindly woman."

Ostara offers a timid smile and a nod.

She'd rather find a library and bury herself in the knowledge that has surely been acquired since Aegon's Conquest. It won't be Hogwarts. Ostara thinks that nothing could possibly compare to Hermione Granger's sanctuary but... Oh, the thought of getting her hands on _any_ of those books makes her heart flutter. But Ostara can't get to the library if she's having breakfast with the Targaryen Queena and her mother.

Cassana wouldn't allow it.

Perhaps she'll be able to sneak into library later tonight when the rest of the castle is drunk on wine or off having sex.

"Will Prince Rhaegar be there mother?" Ostara isn't sure why she asks.

She doesn't know this silver prince, she is not his friend.

But she asks anyway and Cassana's face takes on a certain sadness.

"I do not know, dear heart, perhaps."

"Oh."

Ostara doubts she will be seeing very much of the Targaryen prince and that is, oddly enough, a bit of a disappointment. She'd been hoping to make a friend or two while in King's Landing.

~X~

The feast is extravagant. Ostara doesn't understand why. It's not like Rhaegar has reached adulthood. He has not come of age and he is not getting married not is he in. Ostara thinks that the reason the King has insisted on imported wines and high quality food is because he wishes to rub his wealth in the faces of the Liege Lords who have been invited to King's Landing for the Prince's name's day.

Ostara doesn't understand it.

But she allows her mother to guide her to the high table where she offers her congratulations to the Sad Eyed Prince alongside her family. Once pleasantries have been exchanged Ostara is ushered to the table where she and her family will sit for the remainder of the feast. Close enough to the King to show that they are in Aerys' favor but far enough away that they don't have to pay the King attention all evening.

"I'm bored." Robert whines once they've been seated and food has been served.

Their mother casts him a reprimanding look and quiets him with a hand on his knee.

"You're always bored." Stannis grumbles, stabbing at his food with his fork.

Ostara chews her own food and watches her brothers as they begin arguing in hushed tones. She tries to stay out of their arguments as much as possible. But just because Ostara doesn't get involved that doesn't mean she doesn't pick sides.

Like right now.

She has to agree with Robert.

This party _is_ terribly boring.

~X~

"Stara," A voice rips through the darkness of the room she has been given. "Stara, wake up."

"Go away, Robert."

Her brother huffs before shaking her shoulder with renewed vigor.

"Ostara wake up or I'm telling mother that you sneak into the kitchens at night when your supposed to be sleeping." Robert threatens, tone low so that the Septa sleeping in the bed beside Ostara won't wake up.

"Father knows." She whispers back.

Robert huffs, tugs at Ostara's arm, and begs, "Ostara _please_."

The four year old sighs and pries open her eyes, in the moonlight drifting through the window Ostara can only just make out Robert. He's wearing dark clothes and looks more like a shadow than a boy of eight.

"What do you want?" Ostara demands.

"Let's do something fun." Robert bounces excitedly as he speaks. "Something dangerous."

"Dangerous could get us into a lot of trouble, Robert." Ostara whispers back.

"No one will know. Please Ostara."

Ostara nods once before carefully rolling out of bed, Robert takes off toward the door, and in the seconds before he turns to urge her to follow him Ostara casts a charm over the Septa to ensure that she doesn't wake before Ostara returns. For safe measure she shoves a pillow under the blanket where she'd previously been sleeping. For safe measure she casts a disillusionment charm over herself and Robert then she shoves her feet into a pair of slippers and hides her wand in the sleeve of her nightgown because she's not leaving without her wand and there's no where else to put it without Ostara running the risk of loosing the precious vine wood.

Then she takes off after Robert who is glancing down the corridor beyond Ostara's bedroom door. Apparently no one is there because Robert turns to grin conspiratorially at her before taking off down the corridor. Ostara hisses through her teeth and follows.

Robert is going to get them into a lot of trouble.

Because he's leading her deeper and deeper into the Red Keep and some of the things they come across are far from appropriate for their eyes. Some of the things Ostara hears she doubts anyone would want any child hearing. Especially when what's being said could mean someone getting their head lopped off and mounted on a pike.

Of course, Ostara wouldn't dream of telling anyone about what's been said but...

Damn, how can someone be so _stupid_?

Didn't they know that saying such things within the Red Keep is dangerous at best? Didn't they understand that King Aerys is already half mad and the noble men and women of court more than happy to trade information for the King's favor. Not that being in the King's good graces would do them any good. He'd still think they weren't worth the dirt beneath his toenails.

"This way." Robert hisses, tugging Ostara down another corridor so quickly that it actually manages to startle her.

"Robert."

"I promise, we won't get caught."

Ostara wants to tell him that they won't get caught if they're careful. It's not like the disillusionment charm is perfect and Ostara doesn't have Harry Potter's magical cloak.

They could still get caught if Robert doesn't shut his trap.

And how much trouble would they be in then? Like she'd told Robert, their father already knew about Ostara's weekly trip to the kitchen to sneak sweets back to her room where she would share them with Stannis if he felt so inclined as to be naughty. Steffon hadn't really cared. He'd just told her to not get caught and to not take more than a few things at a time. But would he be angry if she and Robert were brought before the court of Aerys Targaryen for sneaking around the Red Keep?

Yes, Ostara thinks he would be.

Their mother however... Gods, they wouldn't be able to sit properly for a week.

Robert tugs her through another corridor and Ostara has to bite her lip to keep from crying out when the loud clap of slippered feet upon the stone floor reaches her ears. Beside her Robert swears and pulls her into the shadows of the corridor where he presses her to the wall and places his hand over her mouth to keep her from making any noise.

The bald man that slips past doesn't notice them and continues on his way.

Ostara and Robert return to their respective chambers fairly quickly after that. Neither wanting to run the risk of facing their mothers wrath if they were caught in the corridors.

~X~

Rhaella isn't sure what to make of Ostara Baratheon.

The child is too... Intense.

She does not fidget, she does not get distracted, when she and Casanna begin discussing the politics of courts in form of idle gossip the girl does not question what they are saying. Instead, Ostara Baratheon offers keen observations in the guise of off handed questions that make Rhaella, surprisingly enough, want to laugh.

But this is not what makes Rhaella nervous around the child.

Oh no.

That honor goes to the girl's eyes.

She hadn't been surprised to find out that the child had been born with Targaryen eyes, her grandmother was a Targaryen after all, but the knowing and seeing are two very different things. And Rhaella had not been prepared to see such eyes in the child's small face.

If asked Rhaella would be hard pressed to say they the girl's eyes were of a color similar to an eggplant. Dark and rich and so very, very purple. Upon closer inspection, however, Rhaella would say that the color of the girl's eyes didn't matter.

Because the color didn't take away from the fact that the child's eyes were _ancient_.

The kind of eyes that belong to seasoned warriors _not_ little girls.

When Rhaella had mentioned those eyes Cassana had blushed.

"Yes," She'd run her fingers through the curling mass of her daughter's hair, "they were much lighter when she was... Younger."

Rhaella glances at the little girl sitting to her left.

She's reading a book, a large one with small print and all too familiar red binding. The history of the Targaryens from the Doom to the Conquest of Aegon and his sister wives. Rhaella had read it once. She'd found it rather descriptive. Too descriptive for a child as young as Ostara.

"Are you enjoying King's Langing, Ostara?" Rhaella inquires.

Ostara closes her book, not-quite-eggplant eyes drifting up too meet Rhaella's.

Something in the Queen softens.

Because despite the fact that the girl's eyes are ancient and so terribly sad they are still Targaryen eyes. They are the eyes that Rhaella's children might have had. Elaehra and the two others who have not lived long enough to be recognized as a Targaryen. And then there is Ostara with her Targaryen eyes and sweet smile and riotous curls. A child of four with an understanding of the world that she shouldn't have.

Rhaella thinks it would be terribly easy to love this child.

"Yes, Your Grace." Ostara says, soft and quiet.

"I'm glad." Rhaella replies, and then, "Have you met Rhaegar, dear child?"

"Briefly this morning, Your Grace. He and my brother Robert were going to the training yard."

Rhaella nods slowly. Honestly, she's a bit surprised at that. Rhaegar doesn't typically go to the training yard unless he's practicing his sword work. He must be entertaining his cousin.

"Have you met any girls your age?" Rhaella inquires, noticing Cassana stiffen across from her.

Ostara nods slowly. "Yes, Cerys... She is the daughter of a maid in our household."

Now Rhaella understands Cassana's wariness. It's not exactly proper for the children of noble houses to make friends with children below their station. Especially little girls, who have more responsibilities and expectations thrust upon them. If Ostara had been born a boy and had made friends with a servant's child no one would have questioned it. But as she is the only daughter...

Rhaella smiles.

"Is Cerys kind to you?" She asks.

"I think so, yes."

The silver queen smiles. A real smile. The first real smile she's given anyone aside from Rhaegar in a very long time. Without thought Rhaella reaches out to tuck a wayward curl behind Ostara's ear, silently awed at the rich earthen tone of her skin. Several shades darker than Rhaella's own pale flesh but not nearly as dark as her Lady Mother's.

 _Beautiful_.

"I glad to hear it."

Cassana smiles, takes a sip of her wine, and allows Ostara to endear herself to the Targaryen Queen with her questions and opinions and gentle smiles. She might not want anything from Rhaella, the two of them are good enough friends after all and friends to not use their friends for personal benefit alone, but it is always good to have allies in high places.

Of this, Cassana is certain.

Besides... Cassana owes Rhaella this much at least. Owes the silver haired Queen for saving her from Aerys' wandering hand and possessive gaze, owes her for dismissing not only Joanna but Cassana as well when the King's interest began wandering from Rhaella herself to two of the Ladies in Waiting that had been the Queen's dearest companions and friends. And while Joanna's pride had been bruised at the dismissal Cassana had seen it for what it was.

So Rhaella frets over the child Cassana has brought into the world and Ostara begins to preen at the attention and Cassana's smile broadens.

This... This is an easy price to pay for everything Rhaella has done for her.

~X~

They leave King's Landing a week later.

The Targaryens see them off alongside Tywin Lannister, whose scowl seems to be a permanent fixture on his face.

Ostara settles into the Wheel House with her mother and brothers, the book Queen Rhaella had gifted her with resting in her lap. She has every intention of finishing it before their return to Storm's End.

"Rhaegar said I should squire with one of the knights here," Roberts is saying, his excitement palpable. "Would that be alright mother?"

The four year old looks up from her book and the Wheel House begins to move.

Cassana shakes her head, "You would have to ask your father, dearest."

Robert huffs, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"You won't be fostering in King's Landing." Stannis intones, eyes ablaze with something like glee. "Father will have you fostering somewhere else."

Their older brother drives a first into Stannis' side causing the younger boy to cough and their mother to reprimand them both.

Ostara rolls her eyes.

It's going to be a long trip.


	5. Chapter 5

Whatever Robert's obsession is with King's Landing- Ostara thinks it might have something to do with Tywin Lannister- it dies within weeks of their return to Storm's End. He forgets about dragon skulls and thrones made of melted down swords. Instead, the heir of Storm's End focuses his attention on a gyrfalcon he'd managed to convince father to acquire for him.

Of course, Ostara is seemingly forgotten by the eldest Baratheon child.

Ostara isn't upset about it necessarily. She understands that Robert loves her and that he's growing. He'll likely go to foster somewhere soon and then Ostara will rarely see him, this could be seen as practice of sorts. The only problem is that she's still a child, she still wants to run and jump and play... And without Robert? Well, Ostara has focused her attention on Stannis.

The elder brother who doesn't run or jump or play.

The elder brother who reads to her and lets her get away with sneaking sweets out of the kitchen and into his room in the late of night.

She thinks the only reason Stannis lets her get away with anything is because she's the only one out of their family that actually spends time with Stannis. Oh, their mother and father try. But Steffon is always busy running Storm's End and Cassana is always busy with her own duties. Robert doesn't understand Stannis enough to spend large amounts of time with him.

But Hermione spent quite a lot of time with people like Percy Weasley and Ron Wealsey. She knows how to handle them. And so Ostara draws upon every inch of skill her other self had to make an effort to connect with Stannis.

It works.

And when Stannis finds Goshawk it is not their father that the young Baratheon runs to.

It's Ostara.

"Have you spoken to Kollion?" Ostara demands, eyeing the injured bird.

"No," Stannis admits, eyes hard, "I thought it would be best to come to you."

Ostara raises an eyebrow. A gesture that could have easily been picked up from their mother.

Stannis doesn't shrink beneath her withering gaze. Why would he? She's four and has yet to master power of the raised brow. So she sighs and tugs absently at a curl.

"You really should talk to Kollion," Ostara sighs, "I'm no healer."

"I know."

"Then why bring it to me?"

"If you're not going to help I'll leave." Stannis snaps, turning to leave.

Ostara grabs his elbow before he can make it to the door. She really hadn't meant to upset Stannis and she feels a bit guilty about doing so.

"Alright, alright, calm down. I didn't mean it like that." Ostara tries to soothe.

Her brother gives her a look that could curdle milk.

"Are you going to help me?" Her brother demands.

"I'll try," Ostara promises, "I'll try."

~X~

There are times that Ostara misses Crookshanks. He hadn't been the most attractive thing but he'd been a dear companion to Hermione Granger and had taken quite a liking to Harry as well. Ostara wonders if the part-Kneazle would recognize her as she is now.

Probably.

He'd recognized Peter Pettigrew.

Ostara sighs and places her fork down beside her plate.

Beside her Robert is talking about his gyrfalcon Thunderclap and mocking Stannis' goshawk Proudwing for the fact that the poor beast doesn't fly any higher than the treetops. Which Ostara completely understands.

"Proudiwng?" Robert laughs, mouth full of bacon and eggs, "More like Weakwing!"

"Robert!" Their mother snaps, hand reaching out to clap the back of Robert's head.

Ostara bites her lip to keep from smiling as Robert whines at their mother.

In her opinion Robert deserved it. He's been a right prick the last few days and a little discipline would honestly do him some good. The fact that it's their mother delving out that discipline instead of their father only makes it more amusing seeing as Cassana likes to dote on Robert.

"Honestly, your brother's Groshawk is quite lovely."

Stannis' knuckles turn white as he clenches his own fork.

Their father watches them for a long moment. Eyes darting back and forth from Stannis to Robert to Ostara and back to Stannis. Ostara wonders what he's looking for. A moment passes before Steffon Baratheon lowers his own fork.

"Robert, stop antagonizing your brother. It is unbecoming of a future Lord." Steffon reprimands, eyes cold.

At least her brother has the good graces to blush as he says, "Yes father."

"Good," Their father looks relatively pleased. "You'd best be going. You're lessons with Master Broden begin soon."

Whatever shame Robert might have been feeling is gone by the time the boy has said his goodbyes and left the room.

Ostara rolls her eyes.

 _Typical_.

~X~

"Ostara!" Her Septa hisses, reaching out to poke the young girl in the side. "A lady does not slouch!"

"Yes, Septa Shyra." Ostara grits out.

Oh how she hates the older woman. Shrewd and cold with little to no patience. Ostara also thinks there might be some resentment directed at Ostara on the older woman's part because the Septa is perfectly civil with Stannis and Renly, but Gods forbid she smile at Ostara.

The dark haired child sighs as she stares down at the book she's supposed to be reading.

It's a child's book, written in such a way that it helps Septas and Maesters teach their young charges how to read. But Ostara doesn't need this book. She's already reading tomes and books that even her father might have trouble reading. But no matter how much Ostara protests her Septa _insists_ she read the bloody awful excuse of a book.

"Next page." Septa Shyra snaps, eyes sharp.

Ostara carefully flips to the next page, trying not to think about all the ways she could harass her septa.

She begins reading.

Shyra would look exceptionally pretty with antlers sprouting from her damned head.

Ostara bites back a smile. Because no matter how much she would love to see the woman with a pair of antlers or purple boils or an engorged skull Ostara would never actually do something like that.

She's a bit too afraid of the fall out.

But her wand hums from where it rests between her stocking and her calf.

~X~

Their great-uncle Harbert is dark eyed man with broad shoulders and a kind face.

Ostara doesn't much care for him.

He hasn't been at Storm's End a week and he's already trying to convince Stannis to get rid of Proudwing. In his eyes Stannis could do much better than a Goshawk that doesn't even fly higher then the trees.

"Which is utter rot!" Ostara snarls as she finishes telling Cerys about their great-uncle's claims.

The little blonde child shrugs, bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

"Your great uncle is kind enough." Cerys replies as she picks a grape from the pile of food Ostara managed to charm the cook to give her.

"He's a right prick." Ostara grumbles.

Cerys chokes.

The blonde is older than her by a year or so but despite the fact that Ostara legitimately enjoys her company she thinks Cerys might be a bit too good. She's got this idea in her head that because Ostara is a Lady she has to act a very specific way. So it horrifies the older girl when Ostara says anything remotely questionable.

But Ostara enjoys her company all the same.

"You shouldn't say such things Ostara," Cerys reprimands softly, "It's unkind."

"Unkind," Ostara mutters, and she remembers a woman with a toad-like face and a man with milky red eyes and a woman carving a slur into her arm. "No... That is the truth."

Cerys doesn't say much after that.

~X~

Months pass. Stannis gives up Proudwing, Robert is sent off to foster in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn, and Ostara is left to fend for herself.

It's alright though.

They're more then enough to do.

Especially when Shyra isn't watching her.

Tonight is one of those nights. Which is wonderful because Ostara doesn't want to be cooped up in the keep all day. Not when she can hide in the Godswood and practice her magic.

Everyone's sleeping, Shyra is gone, no one will be coming to check on Ostara until early in the morning so Ostara sneaks out. Dons a cloak and disillusions herself so that no one will notice the four year old sneaking out of the keep and into the darkness that blankets Storm's End.

The Godswood is silent.

 _You, little lioness, are very brave._

Ostara does not jump, but she clenches her wand tighter between her fingers and tries not to grind her teeth as she turns to face the dark figure lingering in the shadows around her.

"Hello." Ostara greets, voice timid.

He's something of a constant companion. Coming and going as he pleases, not unlike a cat. He even leaves gifts sometimes. Her wand and a book of spells that might have come from the restricted section of Hogwarts among the post precious and useful gifts he's left her.

Something cold ghosts over Ostara's cheek.

A finger.

Death's finger.

Bony and pale in the dim light falling from between the branches above their heads.

Ostara tries not to shy away. He hasn't hurt her yet, he has no intention of hurting her, but the fact that he is death and Hermione understands that he favors no one makes her nervous. Because he seems to favor her to some extent.

 _Come, little lioness._

Then he is taking her hand in his spindly fingers and guiding her through the gnarled trees, away from the Heart Tree where Ostara typically goes when practicing her magic.

"Where are we going?" Ostara demands the farther they get from the keep.

Snow begins crunching beneath every other foot, the wind grows chilly, and something howls in the distance.

Ostara swallows the nervousness that's growing in her belly and clutches Death's hand a bit harder. At least she'll be safe if she stays close to him... Well, safer. Ostara doesn't think she's safe when she's with him but it's certainly better then getting herself lost in the frozen wilderness. Warming charms only last so long and Ostara does not want to freeze to death.

A chuckle emits from the being beside her.

 _Every great witch needs a great companion._

"What kind of companion?" Ostara demands, the hope of gaining a familiar overriding the fear of her current companion.

Death's head twists so that his shadowed face is directed toward Ostara's.

She gets the distinct impression that he's smiling at her.

 _You had a kneazle once, yes?_

Ostara purses her lips, not saying anything.

And the two continue on their way in silence. The further they go the colder it gets, snow rises up to Ostara's knees and the wind bites savagely at her exposed flesh. For a brief moment Ostara wonders if she's going to get frostbite but no. She's cast several warming charms in the past three or so minutes and they're doing their best to keep the cold at bay.

When Death stops in front of a cave opening Ostara purses her lips.

"What is this?"

 _Go_.

"No... Not until you tell me what's going on." Ostara's voice quivers.

 _Go and see._

Something in his tone has Ostara clutching her wand a bit tighter as she releases the grip she's had on Death's hand.

Without turning back or running Ostara makes her way into the darkness of the cave.

~X~

She makes it about five steps before she's forced to cast a Lumos. The gentle white light illuminates the cave walls and the bones littering the ground. Human skulls and dog skulls and the skulls of something that might be a giant wolf litter the cave floor.

A keening mewling emits from deep within the cave. Weak and distant. It pulls at Ostara's heart. She's always been too damn kind for her own good.

And she knows that it would be best to turn around and apparate back to the Godswoods before she gets eaten but... Why would Death bring her here if he wanted her dead. He also said she needed a familiar.

Besides, Hermione Granger was a damn good warrior and Ostara _is_ Hermione. A new name and a new world and a new view on Death doesn't change anything.

So Ostara sets her jaw and makes her way deeper into the cave.

Deeper and deeper and deeper until the mewling grows loud enough for Ostara to find the source.

It's a kitten. Well, no, not exactly a kitten. It's too big to be a kitten but it's definitely a feline of some sort.

Ostara looks around.

Nothing in the cave aside from the cat and Ostara is alive. The rotting remains of a body is curled up in the corner or the cave, little balls of black with little silver stripes. Bones and fur and little pools of dried blood. The stench alone has Ostara gagging, she's not going anywhere near the bodies. But she can't just leave the little beast trying to suckle on the end of her cloak either.

"Come here, little beastie." Ostara sighs as she stoops down to gather the little creature into her arms.

Its eyes haven't even opened yet.

Ostara pets the space under it's chin, glances about, and turns to leave the cave.

There's nothing left for them here.

~X~

Death returns her to Storm's End, but instead of dropping her off in the Godswood or the courtyard Death leaves her in her chambers. The large ball of fur in her arms mewling and whining and sucking at the tips of Ostara's fingers.

She pities the beast.

"Just a moment beastie," She whispers as she starts a fire in the hearth, "I'll get you something to drink in just a moment."

Ostara isn't sure if the cat in her arms can have milk or if it would be best to give it some meat. It's probably too young for meat but the little feline's fangs make the girl wonder... She'll just give him some milk.

"You'll need a name." Ostara says as she dips a cloth in the milk she's summoned.

The little cat suckles greedily at the milk soaked cloth.

And memories of a giant man with a wild beard and a love for magical creatures comes to mind. A man who protected his brother and protected his friends and loved so fiercely that it hurt.

"Rubeus," Ostara decides with a brilliant smile, the big cat ignores her in favor of suckling the cloth she's dipped back into the milk bowl. "I think I'll name you Rubeus."

~X~

Rubeus turns out to be a bloody Shadowcat.

Ostara doesn't learn this until the next day at breakfast when her mother demands to know where she found it.

"In the Godswoods." The lie comes easily enough.

Her father levels her with a look that clearly means he doesn't believe her. But he doesn't say anything about it either so Ostara thinks he doesn't care too much. It's not like Ostara came home with a black eye or a broken arm. She's unharmed.

"What were you doing in the Godswoods without an escort, young Lady?" Her Septa hisses, eyes flashing.

Ostara ignores her in favor of meeting her father's eye.

"May I keep him, papa? Please?" Ostara begs, clutching the sleeping shadowcat to her chest.

Her father sighs, one hand coming up to push back wild hair as the fingers of the other taps absently at the table.

From the corner of her eye Ostara notices the looks her mother is casting the cat in Ostara's arms. It's not necassarily a fearful look, maybe a bit wary but not fearful. Ostara thinks that she might actually be able to convince her parents to let her keep the little beast without resorting to guilt. Because in all of Ostara's four years she's been nothing but obedient to her parents. A good little Lady that does as she's told and then rebels without anyone else realizing.

Steffon sighs.

"It is not a cat, Ostara." He says.

"Yes, papa, I know."

"You would have to feed it and train it as best you could."

"Yes, papa."

"And if something were to happen you would have to allow me to do what I must without question." Steffon's tone is far more serious.

"May I keep him then?"

Steffon and Cassana share a look before the Lord of Storm's End nods.

And Ostara practically leaps across the table in order to throw her arms around her father's neck.


	6. Chapter 6

Ostara is six the first time Rubeus kills a man.

The shadow cat is fully grown and roughly the size of a tiger, if not a few inches bigger, and he acts like some sort of dog.

He sleeps in Ostara's bed, follows her about the keep, curls up near her feet at dinner, and stays close to her whenever Ostara travels into the Godswoods to practice her magic. Rubeus is also a better companion then Crookshanks, never disappearing without Ostara's permission and always returning within a two hour time frame.

So when Cassana informs Ostara that the two of them will be traveling to Casterly Rock to visit Lady Joanna Lannister, and the two children who have been introduced to King Aerys' Court just months ago, the wild haired child informs her mother that they will be bringing Rubeus. Her mother doesn't seem quite pleased with the notion but she doesn't deny Ostara.

"I've never been to Casterly Rock." Ostara tells the black and white cat splayed across her bed. "I hear they keep actual lions in the keep."

The shadowcat yawns, displaying the wicked sharpness of his fangs, then the big cat begins grooming himself.

Ostara rolls her eyes.

"Silly little beastie."

Rubeus blinks at her, blue eyes bright in the light drifting in from the window. For some reason Ostara doesn't think her companion is amused.

"Come on," Ostara laughs once she finishes throwing things into her trunk. "Mother will be expecting us."

The Shadowcat huffs as Ostara races out of the room but she can hear the heavy thump of his feet as Rubeus chases after her.

~X~

They spend the next month or so on the road.

Ostara's father had worried that something might happen on the road what with the recent Reyne-Tarbeck revolt so he'd sent them with more guards than necessary. Cassana had laughed at his worry but Ostara thinks he has every right to be nervous sending the two of them off on their own.

Magic is useful for a lot of things but Ostara is four, her mother doesn't know about her abilities, and Ostara isn't quite sure what the consequences will be if she has to use her magic to save their lives. Not that she _won't_ use her magic if it comes to that. Because she will. If anyone tries to touch Ostara's mother or the men traveling with them then Ostara will kill them all.

Ostara purses her lips.

It's funny, what living in a place like Westeros will do to a person.

Hermione Granger was a vicious fighter. She'd studied dark arts and ancient curses in preparation for the inevitable, she'd been more then willing to fight dirty, but she'd never considered her first option to be the Killing Curse or some other nasty hex that would prove fatal to the poor bastard it was used on. Not until near the end of the Second Wizarding War.

But Ostara isn't the same person Hermione was despite the memories she has.

And she will gladly kill anyone who comes after her family or her people.

Beside her Rubeus lets out a rumble that might be a purr on a smaller cat, he forces his head between Ostara's hand and her lap and waits.

Without much thought Ostara burries her fingers in the soft black fur atop his head and looks down to meet the beast's eyes.

Something is burning in those eyes. Something that looks like worry or anger or maybe both. Ostara isn't sure what to do with that so she just continues to scratch behind his ear as she turns to look out the window of the wheelhouse.

~X~

Casterly Rock isn't nearly as terrifying as it should be.

Yes, it's big and it's ridiculously extravagant but... Well, Hermione Granger has seen much more expensive looking places like Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor and the Potter Estate. Casterly Rock? It's nothing in comparison.

So when the Wheelhouse stops and her mother ushers her out into the sunlight Ostara doesn't stop to gape at the Lannister Ancestrial Home. Instead, she waits for her mother and Rubeus to get out of the Wheelhouse before moving to greet the Lord of Casterly Rock and the golden haired woman beside him.

"Lady Baratheon!" The golden haired woman greets as she reaches out to pull Cassana into a tight embrace once both Baratheons have greeted Lord Tytos.

The two children lingering behind the woman must be the children they have come to see.

Cersei and Jaime.

Ostara stares at them for a long moment, not sure what to feel about the little girl and boy who smile timidly when they catch her eye. Well, the boy smiles. The girl glowers as best she can.

 _Well_ , Ostara thinks as she turns away, _there's that_.

"And you must be Ostara!"

Lady Lannister moves to kneel before Ostara, giving the girl a clear view of sharp cheekbones and leaf-hued eyes. She's really very pretty.

"Yes, My Lady." Ostara replies, curtsying as she was taught.

"Oh Cassana, darling, she's simply precious!" Lady Lannister gushes as she reaches out to brush dark curls back from Ostara's face.

"Thank you Joanna."

Her mother's fingers run through Ostara's riotous curls and Ostara leans back into the sensation, finding comfort of the familiarity of it.

Behind her Rubeus growls, low and quiet.

Ostara isn't sure what to make of that.

~X~

Tytos Lannister is a weak man and an even weaker ruler. Ostara isn't sure where Tywin inherited his competency but it certainly wasn't from his father.

Ostara had watched the soon-to-be Lord of Casterly Rock while she'd been in King's Landing and he'd honestly made a better king then Aerys himself does. So to know that Tywin's father is an incompetent fool is rather sad.

"Have you spoken to anyone of a marriage contract?" Tytos asks that night at dinner.

To her left Cassana stiffens a bit then she says, "Not yet, Lord Tytos. My Lord husband has yet to decide on a suitable match for our daughter."

"With eyes like that," Tytos remarks offhandedly, "I suspect it's rather difficult to find one."

Ostara wants to grab her wand and hex Tytos, but she doesn't. Instead she takes a bite of roasted quail and tries not to think about the fact that the man will likely die of health issues due to his... Heftiness.

"I think her eyes are quite remarkable." Joanna's tone is waspish and directed entirely on her father-in-law.

But the damage is done.

Tytos Lannister has not only insulted the House of Baratheon with his careless words, he has proven to Ostara that not all men are capable rulers. The King and Lord Tytos are but two of the weakest rulers Ostara has ever met.

She will not allow her husband to be the same.

No matter if he is the Heir of his house or the last in line.

Ostara will not allow her husband to waddle around and whore while his house or lands are run into the ground.

Of this, Ostara is absolutely certain.

~X~

"This is Lannisport." Joanna laughs as she steps out of the wheelhouse.

The Lady of Casterly Rock had promised to bring Ostara to see the Port City when the girl had make a comment about it over dinner the night before. Ostara had almost thought Joanna had been trying to pacify any anger or sadness Ostara might have been feeling but now that she's _in_ Lannisport Ostara isn't so sure. Because Joanna is smiling so sweetly and guiding Ostara around with a hand on her shoulder.

Joanna doesn't seemed to bothered by the Lannister and Baratheon sworn soldiers who have been ordered to escort them through the city. Ostara is though. She wanted to bring Rubeus as well but Cassana had claimed it would be unwise to do so.

Ostara hadn't argued against her mother, deciding it would be best to pick and chose her battles.

"It is incredible." Ostara says.

"Yes, it is." Joanna then turns to Cassana, "Come, I have business I must attend to while we're here and I'd prefer to get it over with quickly."

"Of course, come along Ostara."

The six year old reaches up to lace her fingers through those of her mother's.

And the party moves through Lannisport, stopping here or there to conduct business or to see what the vendors are selling. It's mindless but Ostara does manage to convince her mother that she needs a book of Legends from Ulthos. This seems to amuse Lady Joanna.

"A little reader I see." The golden haired woman remarks fondly.

"Yes, I think she might have read every book in Storm's End at least once." Her mother laughs.

"Is that so? Well, I encourage you to visit the library at Casterly Rock. Master Olivar will be more than pleased to have you... I think he gets lonely you see." Joanna says, winking at Ostara.

And Ostara thinks that she might legitimately like Lady Joanna. She understands why her mother likes her so much. Joanna is so very, very kind despite the cunning gleam of her eyes.

"I would like that very much, Lady Joanna." Ostara breathes.

Joanna smiles.

"Good," She says. "I want you and your mother to be comfortable in King's Landing. You are, after all, like my family."

Ostara can't help herself, she springs for the older woman. Wrapping thin arms around Joanna's knees and hugging her tightly, heart pounding a tune against her sternum. But Joanna doesn't seem to mind Ostara's momentary lapse in propriety. She just stoops down a bit to give Ostara an awkward hug and smiles.

They continue on soon after.

None of them are aware of the man watching from the shadowed space between two carts.

None of them notice the way the man's face twists when he gets a good look of Ostara Baratheon.

~X~

Later that night Ostara tucks her wand between her teeth, grabs the book her mother bought for her, and tucks herself into bed.

Rubeus lounges next to her, his heat seeping through the thin blankets and into Ostara's bones. She strokes his side between page turns.

"Would you like me to read to you Rubeus?" She asks quietly, the big cat just huffs. "This would be much easier if you could talk."

The shadowcat looks at her and Ostara turns her attention back to her book.

Hours pass, the light emitting from her wand flickering the longer Ostara stays awake. She isn't going to go to bed just yet though, she still has to get through one more chapter, but the words are kind of going in and out of focus. Drowsily, Ostara reaches up to rub at her eyes and accidentally knocks her wand out of her mouth.

The polished wood goes skidding across the floor, the light at the end dying, and casting the world into darkness.

Ostara's asleep before she manages to push the covers off of her body in her attempt to go after her wand.

~X~

She's woken by a ferocious yowl and an agonized wail.

Rolling out of bed and finding her wand is difficult in the dark and it doesn't help that she's terrified but eventually Ostara manages to get her fingers around her wand.

"Lumos." She gasps out.

And the sight that greets her is more terrifying then the screaming had been.

Because somehow someone managed to get into her room using the window, which Ostara wouldn't think possible for anyone but a magic user, and now that person is sprawled out on the floor near her bed. Most of the man is blocked from view by Rubeus' crouched form but there's a puddle of blood spreading across the stones and the crunch that sounds as Rubeus crushes the man's skull in his mouth echos in Ostara's ears.

"R-R-Rubeus." She stutters, voice full of fear.

The shadow cat turns to face her.

He looks like something out of a nightmare.

Blue eyes aglow, the white stripes lining his maw red with blood, brain matter dangling from between his teeth.

Rubeus moves away from the bloody mess he's made and doesn't stop until his big head is in her lap, the blood on his fur cooling and seeping into Ostara's nightgown.

 _Better him than you._

Ostara doesn't acknowledge the shadowed figure standing over the hunk of dead flesh near the end of her bed.

She's too busy focusing on her breathing to pay much attention to anything.

Not the feet rushing down the corridor, not the big cat resting in her lap, not the blood spreading across the floor.

Nothing but the way her breathing sounds rough even to her own ears.

Ostara only just manages to extinguish the light form her wand and hide the polished wood before Baratheon guards are pouring into her room.

~X~

"My spiders tell me a man tried to assassination little Ostara Baratheon." Verys remarks idly as he and Rhaella walk the gardens.

Rhaella cringes.

That's why Aerys was so angry that morning.

No matter how angry or jealous Aerys becomes of Steffon the Lord of Storm's End is still family. A cousin by blood and birth. Any attack against the Baratheons would be considered an attack on the Targaryens in Aerys' eyes.

"Who was the attacker?" Rhaella demands.

"A Blackfyre sympathizer my spiders think. Impossible to tell though seeing as the child's _pet_ crushed his skull."

Rhaella tries not to grimace at the reminder of the Shadowcat that apparently follows Ostara Baratheon around like some sort of dog.

"What does the King want done about it?"

"Impossible to say really," Varys shrugs, "I suspect he'll order Lord Baratheon and his family to return to King's Landing soon."

"Because of the assassination attempt?"

"And the rumors."

The silver queen stills and glances at the eunuch that is her personal spy and something of a friend. He appears just as stoic as every but Ostara can see the tension in his shoulders.

"What rumors?"

"Little whispers here and there of a girl with Targaryen eyes appearing throughout Westeros as if by sorcery."

Something about the way he says it has Rhaella tensing.

Magic has been gone from the world for years but if the rumors have even an ounce of truth to them... Oh Gods. Rhaella knows what her brother will do, knows what he'll demand.

It isn't something Rhaella would wish upon anyone.

No matter how much she adores her son, no matter how much she loves little Ostara.

Such a life as the one they would be forced into would be cruel.

"They are but rumors. Magic has been lost to this world." Rhaella insists.

"Wisely put, Your Majesty," Varys whispers, eyes gleaming, "wisely put."

Something like fear burns hot in Rhaella's chest.

Fear for her people, fear for herself, fear for her son.

Fear for the little girl who reads books too old for her and understands concepts children shouldn't even know of.

 _Gods_ , she thinks worriedly.

Things just got much, much more complicated.


	7. Chapter 7

Rhaegar has been squiring under Jon Connington for three weeks when the news of the attempted assassination reaches him.

He finds the entire situation odd for a... Number of reasons.

The first being that Ostara Baratheon is neither the Heir of Storm's End nor is she betrothed to anyone of importance. Assassinating her would do nothing but anger Steffon Baratheon, but even then it wouldn't create a fight or animosity of any kind, not when there's no way to track the assassin, and if starting a fight between Noble Houses was the entire point then something would have been left behind by the assassin.

But neither the Baratheon party nor the Lord of Casterly Rock had been able to find anything linking the dead assassin to a Great House.

Rhaegar runs the brush in his hand over Jon Connington's destrier and purses his lips.

He doesn't remember much of Ostara Baratheon.

She'd been four years old the first time Rhaegar had ever seen her and their only true meeting had been when she and her family had come before the royal court to congratulate him on his Name's Day.

But he remembers Robert speaking of her.

 _A strange girl._

Isn't that what the boy had said? A strange girl with a strange love for ancient texts and distant eyes.

Rhaegar hadn't thought much of it at first, too preoccupied with whatever he'd been doing at the time to actually pay attention to his cousin's words, now Rhaegar wishes he had.

He supposes none of that matters _now_.

The assassin is dead, his head crushed to nothing more than bone fragments and mush, and the Baratheon's are aware of the threat.

And the Baratheon's are not one to take threats lightly.

~X~

"You're distracted." Jon Connington remarks.

Rhaegar looks up from the armor he's been polishing.

Jon Connington stares at him through pale blue eyes, one fiery brow raised in question. There is no laughter in his face, no joy. If Rhaegar didn't know any better he would say that the Knight he is squiring under is discontent with his life.

But Jon Connington is far from discontent, of this, Rhaegar is sure.

"No, My Lord." Rhaegar lies.

"You've been polishing the same spot of armor for the past three minutes." Jon remarks.

Rhaegar doesn't glance down but he does move the cloth a little to the left.

"Want to tell me why you're so distracted?" The fiery haired man asks.

And the silver prince supposes he _could_ tell Jon Connington. He's trustworthy enough and his mother wouldn't have allowed his father to let Rhaegar squire with the man if he wasn't loyal to the Targaryens.

But how willing is he to keep Rhaegar's secrets?

Most wouldn't keep them even with the threat of treason attempting to stay their tongues.

Rhaegar stares at the man a bit longer and decides that a few questions wouldn't hurt.

"What do you know of Ostara Baratheon?" He asks.

"You've heard about the attempt on her life then." Jon remarks, eyes burning.

"Yes, I suspect the whole of the Seven has."

"I've only met her a handful of times over the years. She's a good girl."

"Is she strange?"

Jon Connington leans back and glances away from Rhaegar for a long moment before turning to meet the silver haired prince's gaze. Something burns in Jon Connington's eyes. It's almost... Protective.

"Listen to me, boy." Jon's voice is little more than a growl. "Don't you go listening to rumors like that."

"But is it true?" Rhaegar demands, pointedly ignoring the fact that what the man just did would be considered treason in his father's eyes.

Jon sighs, runs a hand over his face, and shakes his head.

"In a sense."

"What does that mean? I don't understand how oddities could warrant an excuse on her life." Rhaegar retorts, a bit angry because she's six fucking years old.

A child.

No one should even consider harming a child, whether the child is of noble birth or not is of no consequence, Rhaegar doens't think it's right.

"She has Targaryen eyes."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

That makes... Sense. In a sick, demented, twisted sort of way.

The Blackfyres had been crushed, their house destroyed, but not all of their sympathizers had been caught and dealt with. Some could very well be living within the Seven Kingdoms waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike a blow at the Targaryens and those who support them.

And what better way to do both than to assassinate a Baratheon child with Targaryen eyes?

It would certainly enrage his father.

His father, who believes the blood must be pure, would not hesitate to crush those who would seek to harm a _Targaryen_.

Ostara Baratheon might not be a true Targaryen but her grandmother was. Even if the girl didn't have the coloring commonly found among the Targaryens Rhaegars father would still find the child's assassination as an attack on the family.

"Get back to work boy." Jon commands, blue eyes bright.

And as Rhaegar turns his attention back to the armor he'd been polishing the young prince wonders if Jon Connington isn't telling him the entire truth. The man's silence is admirable. His loyalty commendable. But he is hiding something from Rhaegar.

Something that has to do with Ostara Baratheon.

~X~

Ostara glares at her lap. Her wand is tucked beneath her skirt but it wouldn't do her much good. Even the ward she'd put on the wheel house wouldn't be enough to keep _him_ out. But then... Her wards are a bit weak. She's been focusing her attention more on the magic this world has to offer than the magic Hermione Granger had exceeded at using.

Which had been a stupid mistake on Ostara's part.

One she won't be repeating anytime soon.

When the Baratheon party had left Casterly Rock they'd done so as politely as possible. Claiming that the attempt on Ostara's life had prompted Steffon to command his wife an daughter return to Storm's End until they could be sure Ostara was no longer in danger. Tytos hadn't been offended by their quick departure. In fact, he'd seemed rather relieved.

Ostara doesn't blame him though.

She'd be a little nervous too is she were him.

"Ostara, sweet girl, it wasn't you're fault." Her mother says very suddenly, reaching out to pull Ostara against her side.

"I know."

The lie is easy.

If she hadn't been such an idiot none of this wouldn't happen.

Wards are so easy to cast. It wouldn't have taken long for Ostara to walk the length of the room given to her at Casterly Rock and yet she'd been so preoccupied with her book that she'd put her life at unnecessary risk. But who could have know someone would try to take her life?

That's another thing that has been bothering Ostara.

Who had wanted her dead?

Why?

"I'm glad Rubeus was there." Her mother whispers against her hair causing the younger girl to startle.

 _Me too._

"Are you alright mama?" Ostara asks, twisting her head so that she can look at her mother properly.

Cassana Baratheon is crying. Cheeks wet with her tears, bottom lip quivering, eyes burning.

"Yes, sweet girl. I'm alright."

Ostara reaches out without thinking. She reaches out and wraps her thin arms around her mother's waist, dropping her head to tuck it under Cassana's chin. They sit like that for several minutes. Cassana's crying stops after a time but she refuses to let Ostara go, instead opting to stroke her daughter's hair and press chaste kisses to the crown of her head.

~X~

"Are you feeling alright, Ostara?" Her father asks the moment she's out of the wheelhouse.

He kneels down before her, blue eyes searching for a sign of any wounds she might have acquired during the attempt on her life. It's not like he'll find anything though. The bruises she'd received upon rolling out of bed and hitting the stone floor healed weeks ago. But Ostara lets her father fret and when he's satisfied she steps back.

"Yes, papa, I'm well."

Steffon nods, wild curls bouncing around his head.

Ostara looks at him for a long moment.

She doesn't think he's been sleeping well. His skin is ashen and there are ugly smears of purple beneath his eyes.

For a moment guilt rears its ugly head but it's gone in seconds.

 _No_ , Ostara tells herself, _this is not my fault_.

Her father could have easily taken naps or eaten a proper meal. She is not the reason he looks haggard and unkempt. Over and over she tells herself this and slowly the guilt fades away into nothingness.

It isn't her fault.

Not this.

"Off you go then. It's late."

"Yes, papa."

Steffon leans down to press his lips against Ostara's temple before moving to go to Cassana.

Ostara leaves before either of her parents can start discussing details of the assassination attempt in person.

~X~

Weaving spells into the stones of Storm's End isn't hard. Ostara merely has to reach down into Heriome Granger's memories and pluck what she needs from her own head. Then she sits in the corner of her room and goes about layering rune upon rune against the stones of Storm's End.

And she can feel it working.

Feel the heady pulse of her magic seeping into the very foundation of her ancestral home. Mixing and joining with the ancient spells that have already been woven into the stones. It's not Ostara's magic, it's different, but it's strong and it had been cast with the intent to protect those of Baratheon blood... Ostara's spells don't dismantle the ones already there.

If anything Ostara's spells just add to what's already there.

But she's not finished yet.

And with a trembling hand Ostara grabs the knife she'd transfigured out of a feather she'd pulled from her pillow.

It glints in the glow of the lights floating above Ostara's head.

With deep breath Ostara presses the blade against the pad of her thump until blood wells up around the blade. Red and thick and shiny. Ostara doesn't give herself time to think about the pain that flares in her hand as she drags her bleeding finger across the rough stones where she's been laying her runes.

She whispers things in a language that her memories tell her is Latin. Ancient wards that ensure no enemy of the Baratheon house will step foot in Storm's End.

It's the best she can do at the moment.

Tomorrow she'll go through the book _He_ left her and see if there's anything else she can do.

~X~

"Was she hurt?" Steffon whispers into the darkness of his bedchambers.

Cassana stiffens beside him.

"No," she replies. "The Maester found no sign of injury."

 _Good_.

"I suppose I owe that bloody cat of hers then." Steffon mutters dryly, his attempt at humor earning him a brittle laugh.

"It's a beast, Steffon." Cassana remarks bitterly, "It isn't a human. It isn't civilized. It protected Ostara because Ostara is it's master. If that beast knows loyalty he only knows it for Ostara."

 _You're right_. Steffon wants to say.

Instead he pulls Cassana closer and closes his eyes so that sleep might take him quickly.

And that night Steffon Baratheon dreams of a world covered in ice, men made of bone and rotting flesh rising from beneath the ground, and a woman with wild purple eyes starring at him from across a battlefield of fire. And the urge to run to her is strong. Because she might be older, her face might be colder, her eyes wilder, but this is Ostara. This warrior woman with a weapon of some sort held in her hand and a Shadowcat at her side is his _daughter_.

Ostara, who loves books and big words and ancient legends.

Ostara... Who's eyes have always been so very old, so filled with sorrow.

Steffon finds that it's impossible to be surprised that this is what Ostara is. A warrior, a soldier, a woman leading an army of shadowed monsters that breathe embers and smoke at the night sky.

A dream.

It is nothing more than a dream.

 _This is her destiny_ , a voice whispers in his ear.

The thunder of dead feet hitting the ground and the rumble of all consuming fire dying as icy breath ghosts over Steffon's ear.

He cannot turn.

He cannot move.

And then there are fingers pressing against his temple, a searing ice-cold pain seeping into his brain. It is an agony Steffon has never before felt. Inescapable and cruel. For a moment Steffon wonders if he is dying. Wonders if he is twisting into something other than what he is.

But the pain fades and the Lord of Storm's End is left in a darkness that shifts and shivers around him.

~X~

Steffon wakes panting, sweating, expecting to find himself... Somewhere.

He isn't sure where he expects himself to be but he thinks it might have something to do with whatever dreams plagued him in the night. They're forgotten now, only the feeling icy breath on his skin and a panic in his heart remaining.

No matter how much Steffon tries to remember his dream, for surely it must have been important for him to feel like this, he cannot recall anything more than terror.

So the Lord of Storm's End sighs and allows his eyes to wander.

The sun has yet to rise but it's light enough out that Steffon thinks there's merely an hour before the sun rises above the horizon.

Something in the corner of the room catches his eye.

His sword, Steffon realizes when he turns his head to look at the weapon leaning against the wall across from him, is not where he left it the night before but he cannot bring himself to care about that at the moment. He's too busy studying the blade. Minutes pass in the time Steffon takes watching his weapon and in those minutes a ghost of a thought flutters through his mind.

Ostara should learn to wield a blade.

For her own safety.

If she were to know the basics of sword play, at the very least, then perhaps another attempt on her life will not be so easily made.

 _Yes_ , Steffon thinks, _it is better she know_.

He is unaware of the shadowed figure standing at his beside.

Unaware of the smile that stretches the hooded being's mouth.


	8. Chapter 8

Varys is not a fool.

An eunuch, a spy, a player of the game of thrones, a protector of the realm.

He is all of these things and much, much more.

But for all that he is Varys is _not_ a fool.

Sometimes he wonders how no one sees it. He's never tried to keep his status as Spymaster, why would he? Varys does not thirst for power the way others do for what use is power when it brings nothing but pain and agony and distrust? No, Varys does not thirst for power. But he is not opposed to helping those who have it.

And Ostara Baratheon has power.

In more ways then one.

A member of the Targaryen line by blood, a Baratheon by birth, a Lady of a Noble house, and something much more than all of these.

Oh, it certainly wasn't hard to figure out.

Varys, however, is not surprised that no one else knows what he knows.

Because Ostara Baratheon is very good at hiding her magic from those around her. Even her own family is unaware of the power the youngest Baratheon holds. Varys suspects that perhaps her father is aware but aside from Lord Baratheon the rest of the house is ignorant. And Varys finds that so very _amusing_. A beast of a wild thing pretending to be a fawn.

But no matter how good Ostara Baratheon might be Varys has had years to perfect his skill.

And it is not so terribly hard to sit in the shadows and wait.

Varys had learned a great many things upon the eve of Prince Rhaegar's one and tenth name's day. Trivial things at first. This lord taking that whore to bed, this lady conspiring to rid herself of her husband, men speaking their grievances with the King after one too many flagons of wine. He had not been expecting to see portions of walls shift and move, nor had he been expecting to ear the elated giggles of children in the throne room when he'd followed the moving walls.

As a spymaster Varys is required to recognize... Certain characteristics.

And he had easily recognized the boisterous laughter of Robert I Baratheon.

It had only been coincidence that the second child's laughter had been that of a young girl.

Nothing but luck when a whispered, "Hush Ostara!" had echoed off of the great dragon skulls.

Varys had left before either child noticed him but he'd kept a close eye on Ostara Baratheon after that.

A very close eye indeed.

~X~

He plays the game of thrones like one would play Cyvasse.

Move this piece there too early and you loose the game, move it too late and your fate is the same. The only difference between the game of thrones and Cyvasse is that one isn't playing with pieces made of carved wood when they play the Game of Thrones. Lives aren't on the line, the safety of the realm isn't in the balance, it's relatively boring in comparison.

Varys is exceptionally good at both games, however. Better than most.

So when he sends a little spider to the Stormlands in the form of an expecting widow Varys does so with little remorse.

His spy will do as she's been told, gather information on Ostara Baratheon and report directly to Varys. He doesn't doubt his spy's loyalty. She's been with him for years, her children are protected from the fallout should she ever be caught, and she is paid more than a handsome sum of money for her services. Her loyalty belongs to Varys. And in a way it belongs to Ostara now as well seeing as Natari will be the young Lady's shadow in the coming weeks.

"You're quiet today." Queen Rhaella remarks after a time.

Varys turns his attention away from the birds he's been watching to smile at the silver queen.

A sweet woman, Rhaella Targaryen, despite the sorrow that weighs down on her.

"No more quiet than usual." Varys replies.

"You're planning something." Rhaella states.

Varys smiles, a slight upturn of his lips that might not look like what it is to anyone who doesn't know him. But Rhaella knows him well enough to know when Varys is smiling.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Varys chortles.

Rhaella levels him with a look that would make lesser men quiver.

"Don't do anything foolish, Lord Varys." She warns, lilac eyes gleaming in the mid-morning sun.

"Of course, My Lady." Varys bows his head. "Of course."

~X~

Weeks later the first raven from Natari arrives. Varys waits to open it until he's in the privacy of his chambers, the door closed and bolted behind him and his little spiders lingering in the halls and secret passages around his chambers to ensure no one bothers him.

Varys breaks the dollop of wax sealing the letter.

And he reads.

Reads of a six year old girl with kind eyes and gentle laughter that haunts the corridors of Storm's End with a Shadowcat at her heels. A girl that plays with a servant's child and discusses politics with her father in such a way that it looks like nothing more than a child asking questions.

Varys reads of a Dornish sword master who has come to Storm's End under the guise of teaching Stannis Baratheon when in reality he's sneaking Ostara Baratheon to hte training yards of Storm's End when the rest of the keep is sleeping. It would be strange if Varys didn't know why Steffon Baratheon had ordered such a thing.

The assassination attempt on Ostara's life likely scared the Lord of the Stormlands just enough.

So Varys continues to read about Ostara Baratheon.

And when he's finished reading Varys tosses the parchment into the fire. Waiting for it to curl in on itself and blacken before turning away. There's much for him to think about, much for him to consider.

Varys lowers himself into a chair beside the window, running the pad of his thumb over the corner of his mouth.

Much to consider indeed.

~X~

In the end his decision is much easier to make then he expected.

Varys manages to stumble across King Aerys while the King is making his way to his chambers from the throne room. His guards linger around him, close enough to intervene should anything go wrong but far enough away to offer up a semblance of privacy.

"My King." Varys greets, voice low and calm.

"Spider." Aerys Targaryen greets, more a growl than anything else. "What do you want?"

Varys ignores it just as he has ignored it in the past.

"I merely came to discuss a matter of great importance, my King."

"Oh?"

"Yes, but I fear it would be in our best interest to discuss such a thing in private. There are many who might use this information to their advantage instead of using it to aid House Targaryen."

Varys lowers his gaze so that he's looking at Aerys' doublet instead of his indigo eyes.

"Walk with me." Aerys commands.

"Yes, My King."

The two of them walk in silence, neither saying a thing to the other. Varys allows the Targaryen King to lead the way, following to the left and slightly behind, careful not to make himself look like any kind of threat to the man lest he or his guards grow suspicious of him.

And all of Varys' plans hinge on King Aerys listening to him.

So they make their way deeper into the Red Keep, stopping only when they reach the royal quarters of Maegor's Holdfast. Aerys enters first, throwing the great doors open and striding into his chambers. Varys follows, closing the great doors behind him with a soft click.

"What is it you want, Spider?" Aerys growls.

Varys drifts to the window farthest from the door but closer to one of the many secret passages in Maegor's Holdfast.

"I feel it is my duty as a servant to the realm to inform you of some rather concerning rumors I've overheard," Varys begins, preparing to tell the lies he's been spinning about Ostara Baratheon. "There are whispers of magic returning to the realm."

He should feel guilt. Manipulating a child as he has been manipulating Ostara Baratheon.

Telling Rhaella that the child was magic had been a warning and any other rumor he has spread has done nothing but defuse any curiosity the common folk might have in regards to Ostara but this is different.

Aerys is unpredictable and while Varys doubts he will toss aside any chance of restoring true power to his house there's always a possibility that he could do something irrational.

"What are you talking about?" Aerys demands.

And there's something in his eyes that makes the tension in Varys spine fade into nothing.

"Your cousin's daughter, My King, Ostara." Varys tucks his hands into his sleeves.

"What about her? Get to the point Spider lest I lose my patience."

Varys bows his head, smiling softly to himself, and begins to tell the half truths and lies he has perfected. He watches Aerys from beneath his eyelashes, careful not to miss any of the emotions that flit across the man's face.

And the more he talks the more confident Varys grows.

Aerys is not so unpredictable as it would seem, apparently.

~X~

The next day Aerys Targaryen sends a raven to Storm's End.

Two days after that Steffon Baratheon's reply comes.

 _For the good of the Kingdom,_ Varys thinks as the news of Rhaegars betrothal to Ostara Baratheon is announced to the court.

And it is for the good of the realm. Varys would not subject a child to a life such as the one she will now live if it weren't food the good of the realm. Because something is coming, Varys isn't sure what it is or how traumatic the results will be, but he knows something very bad is coming. And if Ostara Baratheon's magic can help protect the realm...

Varys purses his lips.

Ostara Baratheon will one day be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she will be well protected and cared for and Varys will do all in his power to make sure the sweet girl Natari has written about has allies within King's Landing.

~X~

Rhaegar learns of his betrothal to Ostara Barathen several week after their fathers have discussed and agreed to the arrangement.

He isn't sure how to feel about any of it.

Yes, Rhaegar knows that as future King of the Seven Kingdoms he will be required to marry and produce an heir. This doesn't bother him. What bother him about this entire situation is that Ostara Baratheon is a child, quiet and knowledgeable though she may be she is but a child.

In several year she will become a woman and the two of them will wed.

What if they are miserable?

What if Ostara is insufferable and cruel? What if Rhaegar hates her? Is he really willing to force either of them into this marriage?

Does he even have a choice?

The contract has been signed, the arrangement made.

Rhaegar is to wed Ostara Baratheon should his mother not produce a female heir. Which he thinks is the better alternative really. Marrying a sibling, despite it's traditionalism in his family, is not an idea Rhaegar savors.

"Gods above." Rhaegar mutters as he lowers himself into the chair sitting at his desk.

He has a letter to write to one Ostara Baratheon.

~X~

"Ostara, darling girl, may we talk?" Her father asks, pulling his daughter's attention from the book she'd been reading.

"Yes, papa?"

Steffon swallows thickly.

He doesn't want to have this conversation. She's so young, she might not understand. But what choice does he have? Ostara needs to be made aware of the arrangement.

"Ostara, we need to discuss your betrothal." Steffon says, taking the seat across from her.

Her eyebrows furrow as she repeats, "Betrothal."

"Yes, to Rhaegar Targaryen. It's an honorable match, a good match, it will promise you a certain amount of comfort." Steffon promises.

 _I wouldn't have agreed if it didn't._

"Oh, I see." Something in her tone is sad.

Steffon reaches out to run a hand through his daughter's dark tresses.

"I would not do anything to cause you pain, darling girl, a match with Rhaegar Targaryen will bring you a comfortable life."

It's not necessarily a lie.

Rhaegar seems to be a kind boy with a good head on his shoulders. So what if he is a bit melancholy? His kindness means more to Steffon then anything else. Epsecially if he is to be marrying Ostara.

"Will I remain in Storm's End?" Ostara asks quietly.

"For a time yes, but at some point you will have to go to King's Landing to learn the people and the Red Keep and all that must be learned to be queen."

"Oh... I see."

Steffon smooths back his daughter's hair.

He thinks he's made the right decision... Despite her obvious distaste.

But Ostara is a child, she does not yet understand the importance of this union.

 _One day she will_ , Steffon tells himself, _one day she will understand_.


	9. Chapter 9

Bruises heal. Sure, they'd heal much faster if Ostara had access to the ingredients needed to make a proper bruise healing paste. Unfortunately many of the required ingredients just can't be found in Westeros, and even if they did, Ostara doubts she'd be able to find them anywhere but in Asshai. So she has to make due.

Thankfully Daevyn Sand is careful to keep the bruises where others won't see them.

Ostara likes the Dornish Bastard her father has paid to teach her swordplay. He's a got a certain dry humor that amuses Ostara a fair bit more than it probably should. But he's kind as well. Patient. He doesn't get angry when Ostara makes mistakes nor does he yell when she requires a break. He's kind. But unfortunately Ostara isn't allowed to spend as much time with him as she'd like.

Because apparently her mother thinks that because Ostara has the chance to become the next queen it means Ostara needs to become even more Lady-like.

Her lessons have increased in their intensity and new lessons have been added.

Which means that Ostara's days are full of music and sewing and etiquette while her nights are full of sword play and magic.

It's exhausting, really.

Thankfully her mother is the one that does most of her tutoring which makes it easier. Ostara doesn't have to worry about pretending to be interested in her lessons when her mother is around. As long as she participates Cassana Baratheon is happy.

"Stand straight, Ostara. A Lady never slouches."

"Yes, mother."

"Now place your hand on Stannis' shoulder. Stannis don't make that face. Now, do you remember the steps?"

The two siblings look at each other. How could they not know the steps? They've been practicing this particular dance for weeks. Why? Because apparently knowing how to twirl around in big circles is complicated.

"Yes, mother." Both children mutter.

Cassana smiles, the mirth in her eyes almost enough to temper the annoyance building in both children. But not quite. Stannis would rather be fighting with Daevyn and Ostara would rather be practicing her spells or playing with the large Shadow Cat lying in the corner of the room.

But this is important and their mother will release them when she sees fit.

"Very well, show me."

Stannis takes the first step, guiding the younger girl back. It's a simple dance. Easy for a six year old to accomplish. Two steps back, turn, two steps, turn, two steps, turn. Easy. Of course, it's not so easy to accomplish when one's dancing partner is taller than Ostara, and at nine Stannis is much taller. His height makes it impossible for Ostara to keep up, so the girl has to move faster to keep up, which means she has a tendency to step on toes.

Thankfully Stannis has never mocked her for this.

Robert would have. Oh, he'd mean it all in good fun, but the jabs would still hurt.

Stannis is, perhaps, Ostara's favorite sibling. Sure, Stannis is stoic and his humor is dryer than a Dornish desert and he smiles once every three years... But Stannis doesn't mock her for being a girl, he doesn't tell her that her worth depends on what gender she is, and he doesn't get angry when Ostara corrects him.

The only thing he ever does is give her this look that just screams, _try harder_.

Which is the very look he's giving her at the moment.

"Sorry." Ostara mutters.

Stannis just shortens his strides in response.

In the background their mother is singing and clapping her hands together to keep beat, Stannis scowls slightly then his back is to her, and Ostara tries not to giggle. She knows Stannis doesn't want to be here. There only reason he is here is because she's got to dance with someone and their mother decided that someone was going to be Stannis.

Their lesson continues for another hour or so before their mother decides Stannis can leave.

He wastes no time.

Ostara watches him leave, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Is everything alright, darling girl?" Cassana inquires, running her hand over the wild mass of Ostara's hair.

"Yes, mother."

"Ostara," her mother's voice is stern, "I know when you're lying to me."

The six year old turns to look at her mother, eyes wide. "Nothing's wrong mother."

And she supposes that isn't exactly a lie. She enjoys dancing and learning to play the flute. Hell, she even likes singing! Hermione hated singing, she didn't have the voice for it, but Ostara does. Her lessons aren't awful. She likes learning. But then... She's not learning everything she wants to learn.

Sure, her father has found her a sword master but that's not the point.

Ostara will be taught to ride docile, near crippled mares that won't run off with here. Ostara will be taught to run a kingdom. Ostara will be taught things that other noble ladies will never learn because she is to be Queen.

Hell, she thinks that if she didn't have Hermione's memories and her magic then she'd only have a quarter of the knowledge she possesses.

That's what's pissing her off.

She's six years old and she's got the mind of a thirty-seven year old war hero.

And she can't do anything about it.

The only person who even knows anything about her little secret is her father and his information is limited at best. He can't help Ostara sort out the plethora of emotions and memories bottled up inside her. Nor can her mother. Nor can Stannis. She is alone in a world where women are lesser than their male counterparts and oh it makes her angry. But it doesn't make her angry at the same time. Because this is life.

And life is never fair.

~X~

Ostara's seventh birthday comes weeks later. It is not a lavish affair. A letter arrives from the Eyrie, her mother gives her a necklace of pearls, Stannis gives her a rock he found that he thinks Ostara would like- she does, and her father gifts her with a sand steed from Dorne.

"Docile and proud, like you." He says when he tells her of the mount waiting in the stables. "And it will not spook."

His eyes drift to the shadow cat sitting beside Ostara.

She's thankful for her father's gift.

But her favorite is from Daevyn Sand.

It's nothing extravagant, nothing too flashy. It's nothing more than a bracelet made of coiled metal embedded with with black stones. He gives it to her at the beginning of their training session later that evening.

The occupants of the castle sleep, unaware of the man and child in the Godswood.

"It is beautiful, Sir Daevyn. Thank you." Ostara breathes, running her finger over the stones.

"And deadly," The Dornish man says. "Here, look."

Then he begins uncoiling the bracelet until it takes the appearance of a long cord.

"This is a popular style among Dornish women," Daevyn explains. "The metal is pliant but strong so it will not break, and when you wrap it around a neck..."

"It will strangle someone."

"Surprisingly fast if you do it right."

Then the Dornish man with the sharp eyes is kneeling before her and showing her where to wrap the cord around a person's neck.

Ostara learns quickly.

That night Daevyn doesn't teach her to throw knives or hold a sword. Instead he teaches her to slide beneath a person's leg, wrap her hands around their ankles, and pull them to the ground. He teaches her to press her knee between shoulder blades at the same time she wraps a cord of metal and onyx stones around a neck.

He teaches her the quickest way to kill someone.

"I hope you will never have to use such a technique." Daevyn admits as he leads her back to the castle.

"Me too." Ostara mutters.

She has her wand and a shadow cat... And now she can strangle a man with a bracelet.

There would be books written about this in Hermione's country.

A noble born child who is taught to fight who is to marry the future king. Cliche. But there is nothing cliche about this. The books would not have told of Ostara fear when a man crept into Ostara's room, the book would not have spoken of bruised legs and the consequences of her training, and the book would not have told of Ostara's anger.

Oh, the book would have tried but who can write about something they don't understand?

Ostara looks at Daevyn.

"Do you have children, Sir Daevyn?"

"A son. He is about Robert's age."

"Do you speak with him often?"

The man casts her an amused look.

"Why the sudden interest, Little Doe?"

 _Yes, why?_

"You've been with us for several months now... And I feel as though I know nothing about you." Ostara says.

"Better that way. It wouldn't do for people to find out your father is paying me, a Dornish bastard, to train you in the art of killing. The less you know the safer we all are."

"I would protect you." Ostara promises.

And the man's eyes grow sadly fond.

"You would try."

Ostara frowns.

She is to be Queen one day, maybe, and she will have the ability to protect whoever she pleases. Why would she not protect Daevyn Sand? He is her friend after all, and Ostara will always protect her friends.

~X~

The next day a raven arrives carrying a letter from Griffin's Roost.

It's from Rhaegar Targaryen.

The letter is short and sweet. He's written to wish her a happy name's day and to express his joy over the possible union of their houses. Ostara doubts he's as happy as he claims but who is she to call him out on it? She's not exactly thrilled by there arrangement either. At least he's making an effort to reach out and start up a correspondence.

Ostara sighs.

He's ten-and-four.

The age difference isn't awful. Wizards and witches in Hermione's lands would marry people with an age difference up to ten-and-three years, and that's not the biggest separation either. Ostara isn't upset by their age difference, sure, it might be a bit awkward depending on what age they are when they marry, should their marriage actually happen but... It's not awful.

She has to keep telling herself that.

"I hear he's very handsome." Ostara tells Rubeus.

The shadow cat merely yawns at her, displaying the set of razor sharp fangs hidden in his mouth, then his tongue flops out and drags along his lip.

Ostara rolls here eyes.

"But you don't care, apparently."

Without much thought Ostara tosses the letter from Rhaegar onto the small table pressed against the wall in front of her window. She lowers herself into the oak seat, reaching for a quill, inkwell, and stationary paper which she will use to write an appropriate response for Rhaegar.

"This," Ostara mutters glancing at her companion, "would be much easier if you could talk."

Is she supposed to be formal? He was formal... But Rhaegar is a Prince and is anything if not formal. Besides, Ostara is supposed to have the mental capacity of a seven year old. So should she act her age and write about unicorns and true love?

Gods.

 _Gods_.

This shouldn't be so stressful.

Ostara shakes her head. She's just going to write him a bloody letter and not think to much about it. Let him think what he will about what will likely find themselves in the letter. It won't hurt her any. People already think she's strange.

She writes.

~X~

A correspondence of sorts strikes up between the two of them.

Nothing too personal is shared. Rhaegar tells her about sword fighting and Ostara tells him about Rubeus. Rhaegar talks about his childhood Ostara tells him what she and Stannis do in their free time. Rhaegar talks about being a squire to Jon Connington and Ostara tells him about books from Pentos.

 _You like to read?_ He writes one day.

 _I like to learn,_ is her reply.

A book on Pentoshi customs arrives for her weeks later from Griffin's Roost.

Ostara is finishes with it well before Rhaegar's next letter comes. So she writes a reply and tucks it between the cover and the first page and feels something warm bloom in her chest as she hands it to her father to send off with a messenger. _Thank you_ , the letter says in more words then it really needs, _I enjoyed the book_. She wants to discuss more.

But it might be strange to him if a seven year old talks about how Westeros might have adapted some Pentoshi customs to fit it's needs.

So she settles.

~X~

"You've been speaking with the prince, haven't you?" Cerys asks, the eight year old glances about as she speaks, unwilling to be caught by any of the other servants that might be wondering about.

"Yes... He seems nice." Ostara replies as she guides the blonde girl into her room.

She's been teaching Cerys to read and write. Something that not many servants are taught to do due to the fact that they, apparently, do not require the knowledge.

Ostara thinks that's a load of horse shit. Cerys needs to learn to read and write just as much as any noble child, if not more. Should something happen to Cerys' parents or should she decide to leave Cerys will be able to make more money for herself in somewhere like Dorne or the Free cities if she were able to read and write. Ostara also has plans to teach Cerys her numbers but that will have to wait a bit longer.

"Are you excited? To be Queen I mean?" Cerys asks shyly.

"I'll only be Queen if no girls are born into the line." Ostara says with a laugh.

Cerys blushes and crawls up onto Ostara's bed where a book waits.

They won't be bothered for some time. Stannis is in the training yard, her mother is busy tending to some task or another, and her father is traveling to Crow's Nest to speak with the Lord of house Morrigen... The servants know better than to bother her but Ostara can only thank meticulously laid charms and runes for that.

"When will you leave for King's Landing?" Cerys' voice is hesitant.

And Ostara smiles sadly at the older girl.

Cerys has been Ostara's only true friend for years and when she leaves for King's Landing they might not ever see each other again. Not like this. Not unless... Ostara presses her lips together. It's not terribly uncommon for ladies to bring hand maidens with them when they travel to their husband's homes. Maybe Cerys could be hers. But King's Landing is dangerous in and of itself and Ostara's not sure she wants to risk Cerys' safety like that.

"I will travel to King's Landing after I have grown into a woman's body." Ostara says, reciting what she had been told by her mother.

"Oh... And when will you marry?"

"Sometime after I have learned about the Red Keep."

"But won't you have learned all there is to learn by the time you travel to King's Landing?" Cerys sounds confused.

"Apparently not. Papa says that because I'll be Queen I'll need to have a more personal understanding... Whatever that means."

Cerys giggles. "Maybe you're betrothed will show you about? Oh, wouldn't that be romantic?"

"He'll be more concerned with his lessons and fighting then showing a woman around, Cerys." Ostara laughs before motioning to the book in her lap, "Now where did we leave off?"

The blonde groans as she flips the book open to the middle of the first chapter of Westersosi Legends.

"An... And Durran Go... God... Godsgrief loves his Lady Elenei so m... Mu-ch. Much that he in... In..."

"Invited."

"Invited her to hi... His home and woooed her with his... Kin-d?"

"Sound it out."

"Kuh-eye-n-duh." Cerys squints at the page. "Kind."

"Very good, Cerys." Ostara reaches out to smooth back the blonde's hair.

And Cerys turns to level her with one of the happiest look Ostara has ever been given.

They stay like that for several more pages. Only stopping when Cerys needs a break or when it's time to sneak food out of the kitchen. Once they've finished eating they go back to the very first page of the chapter and Cerys reads it again. She stumbles over fewer words and gets through most of the sentences without any of Ostara's help.

And when it's time for the two of them to go their separate ways Ostara presses the book of legends into Cerys' hands along with a letter written in Ostara's hand should anyone question why she has the book.

Cerys cries and throws her arms around Ostara's neck, an action that would have gotten her into a lot of trouble is Ostara was anyone else. But Ostara isn't anyone else. and she hugs her friend back just as fiercely before pulling away and smiling.

No, she doesn't want to leave Cerys here.

Maybe it's incredibly selfish of her, maybe Ostara's going to burn in hell for it, but leaving Cerys at Storm's End while she goes off to play Queen makes something in Ostara's gut tighten unpleasantly. It's not a feeling that can be brushed off either. It's like someone's taken hold of her innards and has begun to twist and pull at them... But Cerys' smile eases the ache a bit. And, really, that's all Ostara can ask for.


	10. Chapter 10

_**So I've gotten a few questions about this and then currently a review that I don't quite understand but I know what's being asked and I want to clear some stuff up.**_

 _ **I know that you probably don't mean to be offensive when posting certain reviews but as soon as I learn how to delete reviews I will delete any that I don't want in my reviews.**_

 _ **My Hermione Granger is black, that's how I've always seen her, therefor Ostara/Hermione is black. I didn't think anyone would be overly offended with my deciding to make my Main Character a person of color, I was wrong. If you have a problem with Ostara being black then that's your issue and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making snippy comments about it or using offensive language to ask me questions.**_

 _ **I want my readers to know that I am not trying to attack anyone. I appreciate your reviews and legitimately value them. I do not, however, feel comfortable with having offensive language in my comments or in my Private Messaging. So if you continue to read this story and wish to review then by all means review, send me PMs, ask my questions, I want people to talk to me about things they don't understand, but I also want people to stop and consider their messages or reviews before they're posted.**_

 _ **The last thing I want is for someone to be offended.**_

 _ **And that being said, if something I write is offensive to anyone please tell me! Of course, depending on why someone's offended I might not change anything but I am more than willing to explain why I won't change it.**_

 _ **Thank you for reading this and I'm worry it's not a chapter update.**_

 _ **~ Rorry.**_

 _ **Also, I explain that Hermione/Ostara is black in the first chapter when she's born and when she meets Rhaella. Ostara's mom is black, Steffon is white. Robert, Stannis, and Ostara all vary in skin tone. It is possible to have a white child when one parent is Black and the other is white. It has to do with DNA and genetics. I have a hard time explaining it but you can look it up and see.**_


	11. Chapter 11

"They're getting stronger." Leaf tells the shadow man.

He came to them years ago, Leaf doesn't know exactly when, or from where, and he'd been so different from the Greenseer. Cooler, distant, all knowing. Leaf could feel the power within him and she'd found herself terrified of it.

But he had not harmed her, nor had he harmed the others.

He'd merely tilted his head down toward Leaf and looked at her from beneath the hood that hid his face from her sight. He'd been searching for something specific, and when he'd found it the shadow man had nodded, disappearing into nothingness in the time it had taken for Leaf to blink. Some time later he returned, a shining ball of something cradled of so carefully in his hands.

Leaf isn't sure what he'd done with that little ball of light.

Something tells her that whatever he'd brought with him from his world would ultimately save them from the darkness that Leaf knows is coming for them.

 _Is that so?_

"The Greenseer says you are... Like me. _Other_." Leaf finds herself unable to help herself.

 _No_ , he sounds amused, _not like you._

"Then what? Who are you to stand against this darkness?" Leaf demands, voice rising just slightly.

The Greenseer had said that the shadow man was something else. Not human, never a human, something other. Something powerful. Something like her but not quite. The Greenseer had been unable to tell the Children what, exactly, the shadow man was but what he'd told them had inspired not only hope but a great fear as well. He told them that the Shadow Man was more powerful than even he was. And the Greenseer _is_ power.

He, the shadow man, is dangerous in a way that Leaf cannot quite explain.

 _I am that which all things fear and I have decided to give your world a chance._

"A chance? What kind of chance?"

And the shadow man turns to stare out over the white expanse of land where Leaf had found him mere hours ago.

In the distance she can just make out the Wall. That great, icy wall that was built to keep the White Shadows out of the land of Men. The only good it has done thus far is keep the White Shadows at bay, for they will not risk going South of the Wall when their numbers are still too small to launch a true invasion that will wipe all of the good and warm from the world.

What chance could this shadow man have given them?

 _A warrior. I have brought a warrior from a distant land._

"And what will one warrior do against _them_?"

 _She is a being of magic,_ the shadow man replies, _The spark that will light the fire that will set the world ablaze_.

"Sometimes fire can be worse than ice." Leaf mutters.

The shadow man's laughter echos through the trees around them. Deep and cold and thoroughly amused.

 _Oh, little one, you know nothing_.

Leaf wants to snarl at him and rake her claws down his body, make him _bleed_.

What does he know?

Nothing.

Leaf has lived for so many years that she can hardly remember what the world was like before the race of men came and tarnished the land and the air and slaughtered the innocent.

So this shadow man has brought a child of magic. A warrior. What good will it do any of them? Humans are cruel, quick to anger and even quicker to point the finger. If one were to discover the child was different than them... Well, Leaf doubts the child will live long enough to do much of anything.

"No," She growls. "It is you who knows nothing."

And the shadow man reaches out to brush bony fingers across her cheek.

 _Shall we see?_

Then he's gone and Leaf is left to stand along in the frigid twilight air.

~X~

Tywin Lannister has always been an ambitious man. If he were a fool he would blame it on his father's ineptitude, but Tywin is not a fool and he is not his father. Oh, there's a part of Tywin that only does what he does to outshine his father, he won't deny that, but it's minuscule in comparison to the other parts of Tywin that wish to do better for the sake of doing better.

So when Cersei had been born he'd been so sure that with the influence his house has over the rest of Westeros and his friendship with the King would have been enough to secure a marriage between his daughter and Rhaegar in time. But no, Queen Rhaella's little Spider had told Aerys something. Something that had caught the King's interest and held it for longer than just an hour or so.

And at first Tywin had thought nothing of it.

Varys is not a fool, he spins his webs as spiders are wont to do. But this time... This time it is different.

Because whatever he told the King has prompted Aerys to forge a betrothal between the Prince and Little Ostara Baratheon.

Tywin's upset, obviously, who wouldn't be? But not for the reasons one might think. Steffon is his friend, they have hunted together and fought together and they serve Aerys together. They are friends, their wives are friends. If Steffon had been born a Lannister Tywin could have easily been persuaded to say that he, to a certain extent, loved Steffon as a brother should love a brother.

But he'd had plans, dammit.

He wanted to see Cersei with a bride cloak of black and crimson draped across her shoulders, a crown upon her head, with more influence than any other woman in the entirety of Westeros. But now? Now that is unlikely to happen.

Rhaella has lost another babe, a girl this time, and Tywin doubts the gentle eyed queen will be able to birth another healthy babe. Which means Ostara Baratheon will likely become Queen when she reaches child baring age.

Tywin sighs and seals the letter he has written to Joanna.

He wishes she were here, as idiotic as that is. Joanna was dismissed for a reason and Tywin would gladly rot in a cell for Joanna but the simple fact is that if he were to be imprisoned then Joanna would be left to fend for herself and his ancestral home would likely be burned to the ground. The King has an obsession with Wildfire that will one day get him into a fair amount of trouble.

What he needs isn't Joanna, as much as the thought hurts. What he needs is a plan. A good one. One that won't blow up in his face. He'd been arrogant before, thinking that his daughter- a girl not yet out of the cradle- would be enough to create an alliance. And in King's Landing, arrogance can get a man killed.

~X~

Daevyn Sand's mother used to be a follower of R'hollor before her death. She'd spoken to him of a darkness that would swallow the dawn and a great prince the would rise up out of the ashes of an old world and drive back the evil. Of course, he'd never actually believed her. He'd never kept any Gods. But he'd been younger then, less willing to listen.

He's older now.

And he knows things now that he wouldn't have thought were possible in his youth.

Like how the little Baratheon girl he's been paid to train is not entirely... Human.

Oh, she's a sweet thing, kind and gracious and wise beyond her years, but there's something about her that had made every fiber of his being want to run when he'd first met her. As a sell sword he's met many people, as a Dornishman he's met even more, but none of the men or women's he's ever met had looked at him the way Ostara Baratheon had.

Like she'd lived a thousand lives and would live a thousand more and the weight of it is almost too much for her to bare.

And something in Daevyn had stilled when she'd smiled at him.

Of course, that was months ago, things have changed now.

They've progressed from using sticks found in the godswood to using blunted practice blades. Daevyn had even begun to teach her about poisons and antidotes, what he knows anyway. His knowledge is limited. But Ostara has never once called him on it, she's always paid the utmost attention to his teachings and has asked questions when she needed to but never has she ever undermined his knowledge.

Daevyn's actually grown rather fond of the child.

Fond enough that he offered to show her his father's home when she'd expressed interest in Dornish culture.

He thinks Broden Gargalen would find Ostara Baratheon rather amusing.

Daevyn smiles as he watches the little dark haired child toss a wooden ball in the direction of her Shadowcat.

"You do know he's not a dog, yes?" Daevyn asks, using his knife to pick dirt from under his nails.

The girl levels him with a look.

"He certainly _acts_ like one." She counters.

And both of them turn their eyes on the Shadowcat who has caught the ball between his teeth. He spits out the ball after a moment, flops onto his back, makes a sound in the back of his throat, and opens his mouth to allow his tongue to flop down onto his nose.

Daevyn laughs.

"Yes, he certainly does."

Ostara moves to pick up the ball and wipes it on her tunic hem of her tunic before putting it away. Obviously the shadowcat won't be playing with it. He seems far too interested in... Whatever the hell he's trying to drive out from beneath the roots of a tree.

Daevyn turns his attention back to Ostara.

"We need to return soon." He says.

"Yes, I know." Ostara replies. "We'll go in just a moment."

The Dornish man nods, turning his attention back to his knife.

They'll have to return within the next couple of minutes if they want to avoid any servants. Ostara also needs to sleep at some point tonight. But he thinks that they can idle for a while longer.

So he sits on a tree roots, tucks his knife into his boot, and leans back to watch as Ostara moves to drag her shadowcat away from the tree where it's managed to catch itself a squirrel. The great beast chomps down on the rodent's head and when it stops squirming the shadowcat lays its kill across Ostara's boots. The girl looks absolutely disgusted but she doesn't squeal like most children might.

Instead she merely kicks the dead squirrel off her boots and pats her pet on the head.

Daevyn finds himself unable to help the laughter that bubbles up from his gut. And Ostara rolls her eyes at him, not at all amused by his laughter. Which only makes the Dornish sell sword laugh harder.

"Come on, Little Lady, we'd best get inside." He says.

And the girl nods once before tapping her palm against the side of her thigh.

The shadowcat's head jerks up, ears perked forward, when he catches Ostara's eye the beast lopes over to where she stands and rubs his head against her ribs. It's almost comical. Seeing just a large beast rub up against a child barely taller than it is. But somehow Daevyn manages not to laugh. Once Ostara has shoved the beast away she makes her way over to Daevyn, her pet at her heels.

Daevyn nods once before turning and making his way back toward the Keep.

~X~

Cerys isn't sure how it happens. She's reading from the book Ostara had lent her, the light of a leftover candle that she's been using for nearly a year the only thing to light the small space she's taken to hide in for moments like this. One moment she's reading and the next moment someone is ripping the book from her hands and wrapping their fingers around her hair, dragging her from the hiding place and through the halls of the servants' quarters.

He, Cerys doesn't know his name only that he works in the kitchens and hates her parents, is screaming at her, ursing her, spitting at her.

The pain and fear that wells up in Cerys is enough to make the girl cry. Tears burning paths down her cheeks.

And then the man drops her, still screaming he strikes her hard across the face. The force snaps her head to the sides and causes Cerys to bite the inside of her cheek.

"You stole it, didn't you?" The man screams.

"No!" Cerys whimpers. "It was a gift."

 _Please_ , she wants to beg, _let me go_.

The man scoffs and raises his hand, muttering about how her parents raised a liar and a thief. He means to hit her again. For a terrifying second Cerys even thinks he means to kill her.

But a sharp, angry rumble stills both of them.

Cerys finds her head moving to stare at the large shadowcat that is making it's way down the corridor, it's master- dressed in her nightclothes, hair a mess, eyes wild with her rage- walks calmly beside him.

The man holding Cerys coughs.

"My La-" The man chokes on his breath.

"Are you alright, Cerys?" Ostara asks, voice colder than Cersy has ever had the displeasure of hearing it be.

"Yes." She lies, unable to tell Ostara that her cheek hurts and that she thinks a good chunk of her hair might have been pulled out by the roots.

Ostara nods as she speaks. "Cerys, go back to my chambers. I'll meet you there."

Cerys isn't stupid enough not to listen to her friend. So she scuttles away from the man who hit her and toward the large cat that briefly presses his face into her stomach before turning to walk with her down the hall.

They only stop for the briefest of moments before rushing off toward Ostara's chambers.

It only takes them a few minutes to make their way through the keep and to the doors leading to Ostara's chambers. Cerys pushes them open and waits for the Shadowcat to walk through the door before closing it.

Then she makes her way to Ostara's bed, the book clutched tightly to her chest.

And she waits.

Minutes pass and Cerys begins to wonder if the man who'd hit her has tried to do the same to Ostara.

She hopes not.

The penalty for such an action would be death... Or the removal of the man's hands if Lord Steffon is feeling magnanimous.

Before Cerys can work up the courage to go after her friend the door swings open and Ostara steps into the room. She offers a tight smile.

"Father has been informed of the situation. Tomorrow you'll have to speak with him." Ostara says as she bolts the door.

"What do I tell him?" Cerys asks, she doesn't want to get Ostara into any trouble.

"Everything. He already knows about your lessons and I didn't know enough about what happened with Eliar to tell him." Her friend explains.

Then she crawls into bed beside Cerys, takes the book, places it on the bedside table, and rolls over so that the two of them are face to face. And Ostara offers a tight smile. Sleep won't come easy, she knows that, but she thinks that if it does come it'll be because Ostara's presence is more of a soothing balm then it has any right to be.

So Cerys reaches out to wrap her fingers around Ostara's and closes her eyes.

~X~

The girl his daughter has befriended has become something of a constant in Steffon's day.

In the morning when she doesn't have to attend lessons Ostara will spend her time with Cerys, they play together, explore together. More often than not Steffon has come across Ostara teaching Cerys her letters.

She's such a happy girl.

So to see her like this? Bruised and scared? It makes Steffon ill.

It makes him more ill to think that Ostara was the one to come across them. Gods above. If it hadn't been for her magic Steffon thinks that the situation could have been much, much worse then it was.

"What happened? Ostara said that Eliar struck you."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Why?"

"He... He thought I stole form you, My Lord."

"And did you?"

For the first time since she's been brought before him Cerys looks up and meets his eyes.

"No, My Lord, never."

And he knows she isn't lying.

Ostara had told him about the book of legends she'd lent to the blonde child so that she might practice her letters whenever she had the chance. Ostara would never misplace a book or allow someone to steal one from her. The book was a gift. Of this Steffon is certain.

He knows why Eliar was angry.

Often times men who cannot read grow angry when someone who they believe is lesser than them can do what they themselves can't. And for that lesser person to be a child, and a girl to boot? Well... It's not surprising that Eliar attempted to punish Cerys.

Not surprising but unacceptable.

"Thank you, Cerys, you may go."

The little girl nods before rushing over to where her mother and father stand off to hte side. They wrap their arms around her and guide her from the room. Once the doors are shut Ostara steps forward.

"What will you do with Eliar?" She demands.

"I will do what I must. It is unlawful for a man to strike a child so." Steffon replies, then he motions for her to leave. "It is also not something I wish you to see."

Ostara hesitates, the rage in her eyes burning bright and hot, but Steffon doesn't worry about her disobeying him. She's not one to enjoy the pain of others and while she might be angry she's more worried about Cerys.

She nods once.

"Yes, papa."

Steffon offers a tight lipped smile and a firm pat on the head before sending her off after her friend. Once she's gone he turns his attention to the man waiting in the corner of the room.

His eyes are wide and he trembles, but he has not spoken a word since the night before when Ostara had appeared before Steffon's door with the man's sleeve held tight in her grasp. He'd been bleary eyed then, confused, his voice slurred. When Steffon had turned to stare at his daughter she'd done nothing but nod her head, as if to confirm the suspicion building in his gut.

The Lord of Storm's End sighs.

Eliar might not remember what happened but Steffon just can't take the chance.

So Eliar will be punished for hurting Cerys, the hand that had struck her removed and cauterized before he is put on a ship to the free cities. A place he will not reach. Steffon feels sick for what he is about to do. But to protect Ostara? His family? Steffon will do anything to ensure their safety.


	12. Chapter 12

When Renly is born Ostara is nine years old and not quite sure what to think about the little screaming bundle in her mother's arms. It's not that she doesn't want a brother, Ostara already has two, and she's seen babies before. She just thinks Renly is strange.

He's soft and squishy and his eyes are an unnerving grey that will eventually settle into another color.

Ostara loves him though.

And she makes that as obvious as possible.

She transfigures stones and leaves into little trinkets to decorate the nursery, she reads to him from her books, and even plays with him as best she can between her lessons and other activities. Stannis doesn't have much of an opinion of Renly, says he's too young for anything like that, but Ostara thinks that Renly might end up being her second favorite sibling after her older, more stoic brother.

But the two of them are still siblings and Ostara can only take so much.

Today is one of those days.

Renly has been crying for some time now and no matter what they do he won't stop.

So Ostara snaps her book shut, stomps over to her brother's bassinet where their mother has placed him for the time being, and leans over to scowl at him. Renly whimpers and thrusts his arms up, little face scrunched up with discomfort and very, very red from crying.

"What do you want?" Ostara demands, trying not to get angry.

He's just a baby.

This isn't his fault.

If he could speak Ostara has no doubt he'd tell her or their mother what he wants but unfortunately he still has a while before he's capable of doing such so Ostara and the rest of them just have to make due. They've already eliminated hunger as he didn't take to the wet nurse's breast and Maester Kollion has ruled out illness, so really it's just one of those days where Renly's going to have to cry himself out.

But Ostara doesn't want him to have to.

Instead of answering Renly merely stretches his arms out further, grasping at the air under the strands of dark, curling hair, and sobs harder.

"Mother will be back shortly," Ostara remarks, "you'll just have to wait."

But Renly's sobbing and reaching for her and something in her is yelling, screaming at her to pick up the babe and hold him and rock him and give him the world. Ostara can't really fight against it. Not when her brother is so upset and no one else is around. So she reaches into the bassinet, slips her hand beneath a soft head and a rump, and pulls the babe up into her arms.

His weight is light enough to not hinder her as Ostara makes her way over to the chair near the fire and by the time she's settled her brother into her lap he's stopped screaming, too occupied with sucking the end of a braid into his mouth.

"You," Ostara remarks blandly, "are disgusting."

Renly just stares at her through unsettled eyes and continues to suck on her hair.

Ostara lets him, because she wants to read her book and her hair is clean enough and it's not _hurting_ either of them. When her mother returns Ostara will pass Renly off but until then she has to keep the younger boy occupied. And if letting him suck on her hair is going to do that then Ostara's more than willing... Besides, it's not like he can hurt himself.

And that's how their mother finds them moments later when she enters the room with Steffon in tow. A nine year old girl in a lavender dress and a book nearly half her size in one hand and a squirming, giggling mass in the other. Steffon laughs as he scoops Renly out of her arms and presses a chaste kiss to Ostara's forehead.

Cassana merely watches and smiles.

~X~

"Did you hear? Queen Rhaella is pregnant." Cerys says one night as the two of them lounge in Ostara's bed.

"And how do you know that?" Ostara asks, eyes sharp.

Cerys smiles, "Mother overheard cook talking about it."

"Well," Ostara remarks after a long moment. "I'm happy for her."

And she is.

Queen Rhaella is a kind woman who Ostara has grown rather fond of in the years since the betrothal was announced. She deserves any happiness she can get. But there's a part of Ostara that wonders what will happen if the babe growing in Rhaella's belly is a girl.

Nothing horrible, at worst the betrothal between Rhaegar and herself will be broken and even then there will be no love lost. Aside from the letters and books the two have occasionally sent back and forth neither of them really knows the other. Their relationship can be described as almost friends at the very best. So even if the betrothal is called off Ostara won't be loosing anything important to her.

But she'd overheard her mother and father discussing Aerys just the other night and she's come to realize that the Targaryen King has formed something of an obsession with her.

Whether that obsession is a product of Ostara's diluted Targaryen heritage or not is impossible to tell.

Not even her father knows. And Steffon Baratheon is rather close to the King as well as the Hand, both of whom he makes an effort to correspond with at least once a week.

"Do you think it will survive?" Cerys asks.

"Impossible to say, I suppose." Ostara replies as she runs her fingers over Rubeus' head.

The Shadow Cat rumbles happily, wiggles onto Ostara's lap, and settles once more into light slumber.

Cerys reaches over to scratch him between his shoulders. They've grown relatively close, Cerys and Rubeus. But Ostara isn't surprised by that and takes very little offense. Even when the heat her companion's body supplies disappears when he rolls over to curl against Cerys.

"Would you hate me if I said I hope it does?"

"No, of course not, Cerys."

"Good. Because I want it to."

Without thinking Ostara reaches out to take her friend's hand.

"Me too." She admits.

And silence lapses between them before Cerys speaks again.

"Ostara?"

"Yes?"

"What will happen when you leave for King's Landing?" Cerys asks.

"I don't know if I _am_ leaving Cerys." Ostara says. "If the babe is a girl it's likely King Aerys will call off the betrothal."

"But are you not a Targaryen as well? In a way?"

"Not the kind of Targaryen he wants."

"Oh."

Ostara turns her head to smile at her friend. In the moonlight Ostara can just make out the sheen of Cerys' hair and the curve of her nose.

"Don't worry. If I do end up leaving King's Landing is close enough that I can come visit when I please." Ostara whispers.

"I'm glad."

The younger girl doesn't say that if she does go to King's Landing then she has every intention of bringing Cerys with her. Because she'll need a friend in King's Landing that she knows is loyal to her.

Because there won't be many.

Rhaegar, perhaps, if they end up married, but his loyalty will be more of a duty than anything else. If Ostara's given ladies-in-waiting then they will be strangers to her and unlikely to be completely loyal to Ostara. Which is why she wants Cerys. Because Cerys is her closest true friend and she's loyal enough to Ostara that the dark haired girl wouldn't have to worry about her divulging secret information. That, and she's more of a sister to Ostara than anything else.

But Ostara will not be able to take Cerys to King's Landing without her father's permission and that is an unlikely thing with the Capital being as dangerous as it is.

"Do you think Adam is attractive?"

Ostara nearly chokes on her spit as she rolls to face her friend.

"Adam Storm? The scullery maid's son? That Adam?" Ostara demands.

"Yes, do you think he is attractive?"

"No." Ostara intones, "I think he's a self absorbed prick."

And it's not a lie.

Adam Storm would have been fairly handsome if he hadn't been such a gods damned ass about it.

The fact that Cerys thinks he's attractive is almost enough to make Ostara puke.

"Oh come now, he's not that bad."

"Cerys, I love you and I support you but what the hell do you see in him?" Ostara demands.

"I just think he's attractive is all." Cerys is smiling, Ostara can practically feel it. "I think he'd make very attractive babes."

And Ostara groans loudly as she flops back onto the bed.

"First, you don't need babes, they're loud and they're messy and you'll never sleep, second, if you give me a few years I'll find you a much more attractive husband." Ostara promises.

And Cerys giggles as she leans over to press a chaste kiss to Ostara's cheek.

"Sometimes I forget you're only nine. You speak as adults do." Cerys giggles.

"Fortunately I think as adults do too." Ostara remarks.

She ignores the amused giggling beside her in favor of purging the image of Cerys and Adam from her mind.

~X~

Ostara dreams of rotting bodies, of twisted faces and haunted eyes. She dreams of a tall, gaunt creature with milk white skin- paler even, than the Queen's- and eyes so blue and so cold they burn, burn, burn.

They are not pleasant dreams.

Beautiful, in a way. With a world made of snow and ice with little cities of tents, the bond fires built by the people living in those tents glowing fiercely against the stark blackness of the night sky. Yes, beautiful. But even beauty cannot distract from the wretchedness that Ostara finds herself witnessing.

Men and women and children being cut down and slaughtered by the dead, mangled creatures that charged across the barren snow covered ground in front of them, clearing a path for the gaunt, white skinned creatures lingering behind the hoard of dead things.

Ostara watches, eyes wide and filled with horror, as the men and women that are cut down twitch and scream and grow very, very quiet before slowly rising to join the creatures that slaughtered them.

 _Almost like Inferi,_ Hermione would say.

It's not a pleasant thought, because Hermione had faced Inferi before, she'd seen what those poor, twisted souls were capable of. And this? This is much, much worse. Because at least Ostara understands the Infiri, she understands their motives. But do these creatures have the same motives? Are they forced to tear children apart and slaughter entire families? Or do they enjoy this? Do they like hurting these people?

Ostara watches as the little tents burn, an orange haze coloring the sky as the stench or roasting flesh makes her eyes water.

And then there is something gripping at her shoulder, bony fingers clamping tight, the chill of rotting flesh seeping through her clothing. Whoever has grabbed her collapses, its grip firm enough to drag her down alongside, and she can't use her magic. Can't summon that great power that had followed her from her life before and settled in this new body. Can't summon it because there's nothing to summon.

This is not her body.

This is some poor soul who has been caught between a rock and a hard place, forced to hide as best she can and watch as her little clan is torn to shreds.

The creature, freshly killed, looms over her mouth opened wide to display red soaked teeth. It wraps its hand around her throat, digging its finger nails in until the skin breaks enough for the creature to dig his fingers into the wound, hook his fingers, and pull.

~X~

Ostara wakes to the uncomfortable feeling of blood soaked nightclothes clinging to her thighs. She groans, careful not to wake the sleeping beast on the bed beside her as she reaches for the wand resting on the bedside table. The blood is gone in seconds, cleaned away by a spell Hermione Granger had learned from a seventh year Huffelpuff when she's accidentally bled through her hygiene product in her second year.

She'll have to tell her mother about this.

There's no small amount of annoyance though. Because Ostara is ten years old and she's already been through puberty one, twice now that she's been born again, and it's not an experience she _wants_ to relive. But she thinks that things could have been much much worse. She could have ended up being born a boy... Then she'd have to suffer the unknown.

This, she decides as she summons herself the special linens that will line her small clothes, is not so terrible as to warrant anything more than annoyance.

"Come, Rubeus." Ostara commands, patting her hand against the side of her thigh.

The Shadow Cat glares at her for a moment before rolling over to push himself to the feet.

Once he's settled at Ostara's side the girl pulls open the door, steps out into the corridor, and makes her way toward her parents' chambers. All the while she thinks of what the possible outcomes of her bleeding will be.

She's only ten and not much younger than Hermione Granger had been when she'd first started to bleed. This isn't what worries her. The fact that she is ten means very little in comparison to the fact that she will be expected to travel to King's Landing as some point in the coming months, perhaps even years. It's impossible to say what with Queen Rhaella's pregnancy.

There are only a few months left before the baby is expected to be born and it is unlikely Ostara's father will send her to the capital until some time after the babe has been born.

So, if Ostara is being honest with herself, it is unlikely she will be going to King's Landing for some time after. Long enough to begin growing a woman's body and long enough to determine whether or not the babe will live long enough to be seen as a true Targaryen. By then Ostara will be well into her fourteenth summer, a woman grown, but even then it will be a year or so before she and Rhaegar marry.

Even now at ten years Ostara would not be expected to wed and bed her betrothed.

Ostara purses her lips and knocks on the door leading to her parents' solar.

It takes a mere two minutes before the door slides open to reveal a tired eyed Cassana Baratheon.

"Ostara, darling girl, are you unwell?" Her mother asks, bending slightly to run her fingers through wild brown curls.

"I've begun my first womanly cycle." Ostara replies, fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirt.

"Oh, I see... Come in, there's no use staying out in the corridor."

As her mother moves away Ostara steps into the solar, Rubeus at her heels, and quickly makes her way over to the chair near the fireplace. It's her mother's chair, her favorite to be precise. She tends to sit and embroider there when she has the time.

Ostara runs the pad of her finger over the arm of the chair, feeling the raised edges of fine embroidery, and waits for her mother to begin speaking.

"Are you feeling unwell, Ostara?" Her mother asks. "If so I can call upon Maester Kollion."

"There is no need, I feel no pain."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it... You've spoken to the Septa about this, yes? About what is happening?"

"I am a woman now. I will marry and give my husband heirs."

Her mother makes a face.

"Not for some time, pet."

"Then you should tell _that_ to the Septa as she's under the impression that I will wed Rhaegar Targaryen tomorrow and give him a son days later."

"That won't be happening for some time yet." Her mother states.

And she says it so firmly that Ostara is forced to think that behind closed doors her parents have discussed this exact situation. So do they have a plan then? Will they educate Ostara from Storm's End and send her to King's Landing when she is summoned? Do they intend to search for other matches should the betrothal to Rhaegar Targaryen fail?

Ostara presses her lips together, tries not to frown.

This entire situation is giving her a headache.

"Will they be told? The King and Queen?"

"They will have to be told, until Queen Rhaella has her babe you are still considered Rhaegar's betrothed and as such it will be important for the King to be made aware of your development as a woman."

"Will everyone know?" Ostara demands almost bitterly.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Your betrothal is hardly a secret Ostara and King's Landing is full of men and woman seeking to better their station. I cannot promise that this will remain a secret but then... There is nothing shameful about this Ostara. You do understand that do you not?" Cassana reaches out to run the pad of her thumb over Ostara's cheek.

"I suppose not..."

"Are you worried about your betrothal Ostara?"

"Yes and no. It is not the betrothal that frightens me."

 _Because I have magic and power beyond recon and no one can hurt me unless I let them... Not this time... Not after everything that's happened._

"Then what?"

"If this betrothal falls through, if Rhaegar is given a sister to wed, what will happen then? Will we be mocked? Will our house be ridiculed? Mocked? I do not want that for us."

Her mother laughs, shakes her head, and says, "Nothing quite so serious will happen. You will either marry the Prince or you will not. Either way it does not matter for you are our daughter and the daughter of a great house. You will be given a proper, suitable match... One that might very well make you happy?"

"Do you believe Rhaegar will make me unhappy, mother?"

Something sad crosses into her mother's gaze.

"There is no true happiness for those that wear the crown, Ostara," Her mother frowns as she speaks. "You might be happy for a moment, you might be happy for months but in the end... Sometimes the price we pay is not worth the power."

"I see."

And she supposes she does. _Heavy lies the Crown_ and all that. She's never truly heard of a happy King or Queen, not even in Hermione's world where people were freer with their wants and dreams. It is dangerous to be happy in King's Landing. Dangerous because there is not but liars and sinners and monsters lurking in the shadows of the Red Keep, each one waiting for the right moment to grab the edge of the rug and rip it from beneath the King or Queen's feet.

Ostara glances at the fire roaring away to her left, barely listening to her mother who is talking about underthings and sex and what will be expected of her now that she is no longer a child. It's all a distant, hazy, background noise.

Because Ostara does not care.

This is nothing new and she will not force herself to sit through another lecture that she's heard so many times before.

~X~

"It's exciting isn't it?" Cerys giggles nearly three months later.

"What is?"

"You've become a woman now... Soon you might even be Queen."

"I suppose?"

Cerys smiles as she runs her fingers over the gown that has been delivered from Dorn. A gift from Princess Roshana, who just so happens to be on relatively friendly terms with Cassana.

The dress is a lovely coral color and embroidered with golden flowers native to the deserts of Dorne. Tight at the breasts and middle but loose at the sleeves and hips, leaving vibrant silk to billow everywhere but at her wrists where her sleeves have been sewn to gather. It is a dress made for a woman, not a child, and for a moment Ostara is almost resentful of how quickly she is developing as a woman.

"Will you wear it some time? Just for me to see? I've... I've never seen a gown so finely made."

A blush, dark red and forged from embarrassment, stains Cerys' rounded cheeks.

Without thought Ostara snatches up the dress and moves behind the dressing screen.

She strips out of her gown and small clothes before donning the Dornish gown. It is not meant to be worn with anything beneath, making Ostara feel a bit more uncomfortable then she would like to admit. But she has to admit that the dress will be pleasant to wear should she ever be forced to suffer summer heat. It doesn't happen often what with Ostara's spells and charms but... There are occasions.

Once the gown is on Ostara steps out from behind the dressing screen.

"You look... Amazing." Cerys awes.

"I look like a whore."

"You look like a proper Dornish woman."

"To some there is not much of a difference between the two."

Cerys laughs, "I suppose not but you do look very beautiful."

"And you are a liar."

The older girl shakes her head, moves across the room, and turns Ostara so that she might see herself in the mirror hanging against her wall.

She is met with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a willowy figure.

Ostara will never be like Johanna Lannister or Queen Rhaella. She will never have large breasts and sex appeal dripping from her but... Ostara is, to an extent, beautiful. Willowy but not so thin as to be considered boyish, her breasts are large enough to be noticeable but not big enough to cause issues, her hips are curved but not voluptuous. She is beautiful but she is not otherworldly.

For that, Ostara is thankful.

She is otherworldly enough with her eyes and the powers.

"You are lovely, it was kind of Princess Roshana to do this." Cerys breathes.

"Speaking of gifts." Ostara rushes over to the wardrobe where she has hidden the gift she's made specially for Cerys.

The ten year old holds out the box.

"Ostara..."

"I know it's early but your name's day is coming up and you've been such a good friend to me that I wanted to give you something special... Especially as I might not always be here."

"Ostara I can't..."

"Just... Just open it. Please."

With trembling fingers the blonde carefully pulls open the box to reveal the stone Ostara has spent months carving and layering charm upon charm on. It's nothing more than a rock Ostara found while playing outside with Stannis. It's a dull blue color with little speckles of white along the top. Ostara has spent months carving it into a perfectly round circle with a hole in the middle and she's spent even longer layering every protective spell and rune she knows onto that fucking stone.

So when Cerys does not move to take the stone necklace from the box Ostara does.

She reaches out to pull the thick leather cord over Cerys' neck and slips it into the space between girl's bodice and her breasts.

"It will bring you luck and protection." Ostara explains.

"Ostara I... Thank you!"

"It's nothing."

"All the same."

Ostara smiles, reaching out to take Cerys' hand in hers.

"You did not have to give me anything, Ostara."

"I know," She says, "I wanted to."

The smile Cerys gives her is warm. Like the pies Hermione Granger's mother would make on special occasions. Like butter bear. Like little Teddy Lupin curling into her side as Hermione Granger read him fairy tales from an old book her grandfather gave her when she was a little girl.

It's simple and it's full of kindness.

And Ostara Baratheon thinks that even if she cannot take Cerys with her to King's Landing then at leas the blonde will have some sort of protection. Even if it's coming from a magical artifact. It's certainly better than nothing in Ostara's most humble opinion.


	13. Chapter 13

There is so much blood, so much pain, more than Rhaella is used to. It makes her scream, back arching, fingers curling around the sheets covering the birthing bed, eyes clenched tightly. At the foot of the bed Maestor Pycelle sits between her legs, waiting and ready to catch the babe that will soon be pushed from Rhaella's womb.

Rhaella grinds her teeth, silently praying to the Mother that this babe will be born healthy and strong.

 _Like Rhaegar._

Sweet, solemn Rhaegar who is her only son and the only thing that has kept her sane during her time as Queen. But Rhaegar is a man grown, soon to be knighted and wed, and he has very little need for her. But this babe? If this babe survives Rhaella will have something else to love, truly love. For she has so much love to give and very few to give that love to.

There is a certain type of fondness for the girl who will one day be her good daughter, she adores Rhaegar and will adore any grandchildren he gives Rhaella, but now she will have another child of her own to adore and love and spoil.

The Gods know Aerys certainly won't.

He's never much cared for Rhaegar. Not like he should anyway. Rhaella thinks that to some extent Aerys has always felt a bit threatened by Rhaegar. Because sweet, solemn Rhaegar is loved by the common folk and more than a good few of the Southern Lords, he's quiet and brilliant and he is to marry a girl that lives with magic flowing hot and heavy in her veins.

And the fact that Rhaegar will likely be a better king than any before him simply _enrages_ Aerys.

"You're doing well, My Lady," Pycelle's voice rips Rhaella from her thoughts. "Just a bit more I suspect."

A bit more? Rhaella already feel like she's dying. How much longer can she keep this up?

 _Please_ , she prays and Pycelle says that the head is crowning, _let it live_.

Whether or not the Gods hear her is unimportant, what matters is whether or not they will grant her this small mercy. For the Gods are cruel despite the fact that they are meant to protect those that pray to them. It is a simple truth, one Rhaella has no qualms admitting for it is not meant as a slight and the Gods will not take it as such.

Another scream tears itself from her and as it dies another sound fills the room. A high pitched wail and the jubilant cries of Pycelle as he claims that, "It is a boy, your Grace!"

A boy, a boy, it is a boy.

"Let me see him." Rhaella commands, begs, as she pushes up on trembling arms. "Let me see him."

"We must tend to him first, your Grace, allow yourself time to rest." Pycelle replies, eyes trained on the bloody mass of wriggling flesh in his arms.

"No," Rhaella's voice is sharp, "let me see my babe!"

Pycelle levels her with a look, one she has seen many times from the man, it speaks of annoyance and an instinctual need to survive. For any slight to Rhaella could mean his removal from the Red Keep on Aerys command... Not that he would necessarily care about any slight to Rhaella but if he somehow felt that _he_ was being slighted through his wife? Well, Pycelle would never work as a Maester again.

"Mind his head, your grace." Pycelle says at last.

And then he is passing the babe into Rhaella's arms and she cannot breathe for the beauty of this babe is so very, very great that it nearly sucks the life from her.

When was the last time she'd help one of her own babes in her arms? When was the last time one came from her body kicking and screaming and strong? When was the last time she'd been able to hold one of her babes and not worry about whether or not it would live to be named?

Too long. It has been far too long. But now she has a babe of her own, one that will live beyond his third name's day. One that will live long enough to be knighted. She knows it.

 _She knows it_.

And as Rhaella strokes her son's little chest with the pad of her finger she weeps with the joy of it.

~X~

Months later Tywin Lannisters tells the King he will be holding a tourney in Lannisport in honor of Visery's birth. Invitations are sent out across Westeros so that other High Lords will be forced to attend whether they want to or not. And as theirs is a Great House the members of House Baratheon will be expected to attend.

Ostara isn't necessarily looking forward to it.

Because she'll be going as Rhaegar Targaryen's betrothed and it is not unlikely that they will meet at this tournament. Neither of them have exchanged letters in some time, several months if Ostara remembers correctly, and she has a feeling it's going to be... Uncomfortable? Yes, that's the best word for it. Uncomfortable.

Like wet stockings or the tightness of a dress that doesn't fit quite right.

Uncomfortable.

But what is she to do? Refuse to go? Even if she were to do so Cassana Baratheon would have her hide for even suggesting it... Besides, her trunk is already packed and despite everything that is likely to go wrong at this celebration, Ostara is grudgingly excited. So when her mother strides into Ostara's room dressed in a gown of flowing red-clay silk Ostara pointedly ignores the fabric in her hands.

A gown for her no doubt, specially made.

"Good morning, darling girl." Her mother greets as she places the pile of fabric down on the bed.

"Good morning, Mother." Ostara replies, eyes glued to the pale blue satin of the gown.

Her mother notices, of course she does, and smiles as she begins to carefully unfold the gown.

"Aerys wishes to present you at the feast ending the tourney." Her mother says and she holds up the gown to show Ostara. "And so he sent you this."

It's lovely. Pale blue like a sky at high noon that fades into the misty blue-purple of a twilight sky, there is silver embroidery of flowers all over the bodice and a slip of matching silver silk to go underneath. Beautiful, but Ostara still doesn't understand why she's getting a new dress. It's lovely, yes, and obviously chosen by Queen Rhaella and not her husband, who would have likely chosen ebony and rust colored silks.

"And why is that? Everyone will already know of the betrothal." Ostara voices her confusion as bluntly as she can.

"Just because everyone is aware of it doesn't mean your betrothal isn't important." Cassana replies.

Ostara watches as she moves to the trunk and begins putting Ostara's gown with the others. The blue satin not the lightest of the colors in her collection but noticeably different none the less. Especially when it's tucked against a gown of deep olive green embroidered with golden leaves. Ostara stares at the spot it occupies in her trunk even after her mother has closed the lid.

"So I am to be presented before the Lords and Ladies of the realm like Chattel."

"Ostara."

"Mother."

Cassana sighs, "It won't be awful. You won't even have to be in Rhaegar's presence long. The King will announce your betrothal, the two of you will exchange pleasantries, and then Stannis will come and ask you to dance."

It's not being stuck with Rhaegar all night that makes Ostara nervous, though that might be some of the reason tension is beginning to build at the base of her skull, her nervousness comes from the feeling she has that Aerys knows something he probably shouldn't. But without proof Ostara can't do anything about it and even if she did, in fact, do something about whatever it is he might know altering his memory would rouse too much suspicion.

Besides, he hasn't done anything noteworthy with whatever he might or might not know so Ostara can't rationalize her tension nor can she shake it.

Why would he be sending her gifts? He would not even send such a thing to his wife. His Queen. So why her? Why Ostara?

Is it all for public show? A way to make her think he actually wants her to be part of his house? If so it needs to end, Ostara isn't stupid, she knows why he sent that betrothal letter. It's because she has Targaryen blood and Targaryen eyes and for Aerys, whose mind is not as stable as it should be, that is enough to tell him that the blood of the dragon is strong in her.

 _What utter rot_.

"Have you decided on jewelry? I want to make sure you're bringing the pearls."

"I've packed the pearls with the rest of my jewelry, yes."

"Good," Cassana reaches out to tug on a wayward curl, "the pearls will look lovely on you."

And will be utterly impossible to take out of her hair later. Oh, it wouldn't be so bad if the damnable pearls were part of a hair net or a band of some sort, it might even be manageable. However, the Pentoshi man who'd sold her mother the pearls had convinced Cassana that the delicate gold coils would look stellar if they were woven into Ostara's hair.

As if the mass of her hair wasn't enough of a damn pain to begin with.

But she packed the little coils away with the rest of the jewelry she'd chosen to bring. Why? Because her mother had gotten them specifically for her and what kind of child would she be if she didn't at least wear them once?

"When are we leaving?" Ostara asks.

"In an hour or so, your father has some business to finish here and the servants are moving our things to the wheelhouse."

"I see."

Ostara casts a glance at Rubeus. The Shadowcat has not grown a great deal, standing at a high equal to that of the bottom rib of Ostara's rib cage, but he has not willingly left Ostara's side for long periods of time and she has no intention of leaving him at Storm's End. However, traveling with him in the wheelhouse might prove difficult if her mother decides to bring more then the minimum requirement of hand maidens.

The shadowcat yawns, the action displaying the alarming amount of razor sharp fangs in his mouth before they disappear as his mouth snaps shuts. Ostara can't help the smile that stretches across her face before she turns her attention back to her mother, who has just finished whatever she'd been doing while her daughter had been distracted and smiles charmingly.

"I'll come fetch you before we leave." Cassana promises.

"Very well," Ostara says. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, darling girl."

And then her mother is gone.

Ostara stares at the door for several long moments before pulling her wand from its hiding spot in her boot, then she moves to sit at her vanity. Her reflection is almost grainy in the mirror but Ostara doesn't mind. It's of little consequence to her if she can see herself in perfect detail or no. It's not like she isn't using her wand to braid and twist her hair into a style typical of a girl born in the Storm Lands.

Once her hair is done Ostara slips her wand back into her boot and turns to Rubeus.

"You're lucky, you know," She tells the shadowcat, "you don't have to worry about politics."

Instead of answering the beast blinks at her, huffs, and curls into a tighter ball in the corner. Ostara shakes her head in vague disbelief before turning her attention to the pile of books on the table next to her bed. She'll only be able to bring a few without drawing attention to them and she can't decide if she'd rather bring a book of legends from this world or the two books _He_ had left on the foot of her bed the day before.

She decides to bring the newest books as she can always glamour their covers if need be. So she tosses them into the small basket with the embroidery she'll be expected to work on during some of the trip to Lannisport. Ostara stares at the vibrantly colored covers and the titles printed in gold on the binding before closing the basket and hiding the books from view.

~X~

"You'll be careful, yes?" His mother asks.

It's the first time he's seen her in months and while they've sent letters back and forth since Rhaegar went to squire with Jon Connington it is good to see his mother's face. Even if it is gaunt and there are dark smears of purple-blue beneath her eyes from lack of sleep.

Rhaegar allows her a rare smile and moves to press a kiss to the hand not supporting Viserys.

"I will." Rhaegar promises.

"Try to have fun, Rhaegar." His mother commands after a moment, then she smiles, "I hear Ser Arthur is looking forward to the tourney."

"Arthur looks forward to every tourney, mother." Rhaegar remarks, eyes drifting to where his friend is waiting with Barristan Selmy.

His mother grows quiet for a long moment and Rhaegar almost asks if she is feeling well. If he should fetch for Maester Pycelle. Rhaegar is loath to do it, as he trusts the man about as much as he trusts a manticore, but he is a Maester and if his mother is ill... Well, he has never intentionally hurt Rhaella Targaryen as far as Rhaegar is aware.

Fortunately his mother's silence breaks with a wistful laugh. Her hand rising to brush silvery hair from Rhaegar's face as she used to do when he was a child or later in his life whenever she wished to offer comfort.

"I'll see you when you return." His mother says.

"Yes."

And then Rhaella Targaryen steps back, puts space between them, allowing Rhaegar a proper glance at the babe in his mother's grasp. It's perhaps a selfish thing, as his mother has lost so many children, but he is thankful Viserys had not been born a girl. A sister-bride is not something Rhaegar has ever truly relished the idea of and a sister-bride that is ten-and-seven years his junior is even worse.

It is cruel of him though, to think such things and he regrets them almost as soon as the thoughts flit through his mind.

His mother did not deserve to lose the children she has lost. She did not deserve Aerys' rage after each child was born silent or lost their lives in the crib. Viserys is the first to live beyond infancy.

Without much thought he moves to press a chaste kiss to his mother's temple.

"If you are in need of anything while we are away write to me and I will return." Rhaegar promises.

"If I need anything I will have my guards to protect me."

Rhaegar casts a glance between his mother and brother before nodding, then he's making his way to the destrier awaits him. Once he's settled on his mount Arthur moves to ride beside him.

Neither or them speak as the King announces that it's time to leave. Aerys does not even bid his wife goodbye, nor does he move to offer affection for his newest son, all he does is spare then a glance before digging his heels into his horse's flanks. Rhaegar hates him for it, hates that his father cannot even spare a moment to make an attempt at being kind to his wife.

When Rhaegar marries he will not be like his father.

He will not raise his hand in anger, he will not spit derogatory terms, he will not blame his wife for any stillbirths or sickly infants.

"Are you unwell, Rhaegar?" Arthur asks.

"Quite alright, thank you."

Arthur smirks.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Baratheon would it?" He chortles.

Rhaegar almost wants to shove him off his horse. He refrains, however. Instead Rhaegar just rolls his eyes, adjusts his grip on the reins, and does _not_ react when his closest friend snorts.

"Oh, don't be nervous Rhaegar," Arthur laughs. "I hear Ostara Baratheon is a sweet _girl_."

"She is seven years my junior."

The age difference isn't terrible. It could have been worse. What is seven years in the grand scheme of things? Rhaegar will be in his twenties by the time he and Ostara are wedded and bedded. At least this way he won't be an old man when his wife is of marriageable age.

"And if you do anything inappropriate that cat of hers will likely rip off your arm."

"That isn't funny."

"Yes it is."

Rhaegar doesn't agree, instead he rolls his eyes and urges his horse to move faster. Arthur's laughter follows him as Rhaegar moves to ride beside Barristan Selmy who does little more than lift a peppered brow at his sudden appearance.

The man has always been a good friend to Rhaegar, perhaps not as close to him as Arthur Dayne but a good friend none the less, and while there is a certain distance between them Rhaegar doesn't doubt that he would willingly, without a moment of hesitation place the lives of his Mother and brother into the aging Knight's hands. Which is a feat in an of itself because Rhaegar would only trust two people to protect his mother and brother.

Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy.

No one else.

Rhaegar runs a hand through his hair, eyes moving traveling between each member of their retinue. There are carts with supplies and trunks and other things that will be needed for the tourney. Squires ride beside their appointed knights, banner held aloft with a steady hand. Several of the members of the Kingsguard carry Targaryen banners.

The black silk with crimson embroidery flutters lazily in the breeze.

The prince finds himself thinking about the cloak his mother had been embroidering when he'd returned to King's Landing only a month prior. Black satin lined with silk, a three headed dragon emblazoned across the back, there had been rubies scattered about in a sea of black. It will be the cloak Rhaegar will wrap his bride in, obviously his mother had waited to begin making it until she'd been sure her babe was a boy.

Absently, and with no small amount of guilt, Rhaegar wonders if the colors will compliment his bride-to-be. Wonders if she will look more lovely in ebony and crimson or in charcoal and gold.

He supposes that at the end of the day it doesn't truly matter.


	14. Chapter 14

"What are you reading, Ostara?" Her mother asks on the last morning of their trip to Lannisport.

Ostara glances up from her book to meet her mother's gaze. None of the other ladies in the wheel house, Cassana's personal maids, are paying much attention. They're too busy embroidering or sleeping or gossiping about this Lord or that Lady, so they haven't been much of a problem for Ostara.

"Legends of Asshai." Ostara lies.

It's something she's been doing a lot of lately. Lying. Mostly to her mother, who has no idea that her sweet daughter is more than human. It is what her father wanted, unspoken though that want may be, Ostara knows it is true. Why wouldn't he have told the wife he holds in such high regard if he had wanted her to know about Ostara's magic?

Steffon Baratheon has never mentioned it to any of their family and Ostara has no intention of going against his unspoken rule.

Oh, she doesn't think her father would mind to terribly if she were to tell Stennis but... Well, he's loyal to a fault and Ostara isn't sure if he'll end up telling their mother or not. Ostara doubts Stannis would betray her trust in such a way, however, what he doesn't know can't be used against him.

Can't be used to hurt him.

It's how she justifies the lying.

"Do you find them interesting, dear girl?" Her mother's voice is coated with gentle laughter.

"Interesting enough." Ostara retorts as she closes her book and slips it into the basket holding her embroidery.

Rubeus sees the lack of book as an opportunity and promptly drops his overly large head into Ostara's lap where he huffs expectantly and begins rubbing his head against her middle. Ostara placates him by carding her fingers through his fur.

"We'll reach Lannisport soon. Are you not excited?" One of the hand maidens asks.

"I am excited to see Robert and to meet my betrothed."

It's entirely too political for Ostara's liking. What she'd really like to tell the woman is that she doesn't give a flying fuck about seeing Robert, which, ok, that's a lie but not a big one? Ostara hasn't seen Robert in years and their letters are always overly polite at best. She's not sure how this little reunion is going to go but if Robert's anything like she remembers then Ostara's likely to end up playing mediator for her brothers.

What she's honestly worried about is Aerys Targaryen.

Rhaegar doesn't scare her.

Hermione Granger was no blushing virgin when she'd married Ronald Weasley and so the concept of marriage and sex doesn't scare her, therefore, she has no reason to fear Rhaegar Targaryen, in fact, she one day hopes that their marriage can grow to something other than a respect born of duty. Ostara thinks that, perhaps in time, respect and love her husband-to-be... But Aerys?

Half of the Targaryens ever born went mad, a result of incest and poor parenting decisions, and while Rhaegar might not show the signs of succumbing to the infamous Targaryen madness Aerys is not so lucky. Even now there are whispers of the man showing the beginning signs of insanity. Which does not bode well for Ostara, for if the king finds out about her magic and does end up turning into a nutcase, she's fucked.

And no one, not even her princely husband, will be able to protect her.

Because she won't slaughter innocent people, she won't torture people who don't deserve to be tortured.

She is not Voldemort.

She is not Bellatrix.

"You're going to make a wonderful princess, My Lady." Another hand maiden breathes.

"I hear the Prince is very kind, very honorable." The first one remarks.

Ostara curls her fingers around the scruff of Rubeus' neck.

All around her the women are twittering about how handsome Prince Rhaegar is, how talented he is, how loved he is. Why are they doing this? Do they not realize that Ostara hates them for it? If she is to marry the man she would see and judge him herself, not build her opinions on the words of women attempting to soothe a seemingly frightened child.

Ostara resists the urge to run her fingers over the unblemished skin of her left inner arm. There are no scars there, nothing to remind her of the horrors she faced in her last life. But it is a habit she can't seem to stop.

From her lap Rubeus presses his snout to her hip, hot breath seeping through her dress and into her skin.

One of the ladies, a dark eyed woman with honey-blonde hair and a sever face, casts the shadowcat a tentative glance before returning to her embroidery. As she pushes the needle through the pale fabric Ostara notices the shaking of her pale fingers. Ostara tries not to scoff. If the woman was truly so afraid of Rubeus she wouldn't have chosen to sit so close to him.

There's no point in calling her on it, though. Doing anything like that would cause nothing but trouble and the last thing Ostara needs at the moment is anything even remotely close to trouble. Especially now, when she's traveling into unknown territory. Not that anything is going to happen at the tourney. There's going to be too many guards, too many eyes, too many people who'd jump on the chance to fall into the good graces of the King.

But Ostara's not fool enough to think she or her family are entirely safe. Which is why the firm press of her wand against her calf if a reassuring thing. No one can hurt her if she has Rubeus, no one can hurt her family if she has her wand.

A glance at her mother, who is speaking animatedly with one of her hand maidens, is enough to put an end to whatever reservations she might have had about taking another person's life.

~X~

The tournament doesn't begin until the day after everyone arrives, which gives the newly arrived Lords enough time to prepare their armor and their horses and have their squires run their errands.

Ostara has never truly been to a tourney such as this before and she finds herself wandering through the maze of tents and stands with a curious smile. Rubeus trails behind her, never farther than a hands width from her side. More then once Ostara has caught him curling his lip at a passing squire and she has never truly reprimanded him for it. Rubeus is the only reason her mother hadn't sent armed guards with her.

So whenever he turns his lip up or narrows his eyes at someone Ostara ignores it as best she can. But even she is not so cruel as to allow her familiar to torment every person they pass. And whenever the shadowcat happens to cause someone legitimate distress Ostara presses her hand to her familiar's side and offers a sharp look of reprimand.

But one man seems particularly unperturbed by the curled lip and fangs.

"A fine pet, my Lady, I've never seen the likes of him." The man remarks when Ostara passes him.

Ostara allows her eyes to drag from his finely made boots to the top of his carefully groomed head. He is, unsurprisingly, handsome. Tall with broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair, and eyes colored similar to that of a sprig of lavender. Ostara is only aware of one family in all of Westeros aside form the Targaryens that possess such eyes.

"I would assume not, Lord Dayne." Ostara's reply is laced with a slight hesitation.

The man's face is full of mirth a he steps away from the tent he'd been standing beside. He takes her hand, eyes lingering on the Shadowcat for but a moment before he meets Ostara's gaze, and presses a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

"Arthur Dayne, My Lady, I'm afraid we've never been introduced."

"Ostara Baratheon, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Ostara pulls her hand from his grasp and offers another polite smile. "If you'll excuse me."

She moves to walk away but the King's Guard Knight follows, hand on the pommel of his sword, and Ostara wants to spell his feet to the ground but knows it would reflect poorly on her and cause more trouble then it's worth, and so she allows the man to follow her through the tents and stalls.

"Might I escort you, Lady Baratheon? While I have no doubt your pet is more than capable of protecting you I would prefer to see you back to your tent." Sir Dayne says after a moment.

"If it please you, Sir."

"Thank you, My Lady."

The young witch glances at the man, nods briskly, then continues on her way. Originally, she'd intended to find the quietest places in Lannisport and make use of them later, but seeing as her plans have been derailed Ostara might as well return to her family's tent. Thankfully her newfound companion is quiet enough and Rubeus has stopped snarling at him every time he moves too close to Ostara.

Through the tents and fluttering banners Ostara can just make out the ebony and gold of House Baratheon. Thank the Gods, she's more than ready to leave Arthur Dayne to his own devices.

"Do you enjoy Lannisport, My Lady?" Arthur asks after a while.

"I've only just arrived but my last visit was a relatively pleasant one."

 _If you count the assassin Rubeus slaughtered._

Ostara offers a tight grin and Arthur Dayne must realize that she's growing uncomfortable with his polite smiles and his staring because he opens his mouth, to apologize or say something else to soothe her Ostara isn't sure. Whatever he goes to say is interrupted by the sound of an all too familiar voice.

"Ostara," both she and Arthur turn to look at Stannis. "mother is looking for you."

Sweet, sweet Stannis. He doesn't even realize how much of a hero he is to her. Not, of course, that she felt truly uncomfortable with Arthur Dayne, it's just that she doesn't know him all that well and isn't it odd that he'd gone out of his way to accompany an obviously protected girl back to her tent despite the fact that no one will attack Ostara with Rubeus at her side.

After all, no one wants to risk loosing a limb to an annoyed Shadowcat much less their life.

"Thank you, Sir Dayne, it was a pleasure to meet you." Ostara makes sure to curtsy before moving to her brother's side.

Stannis is only two years her elder but Ostara feel ridiculously safe in his presence. He doesn't smile at her, doesn't offer her a twitch of the mouth that Ostara has learned means he is amused, instead he offers a ferocious glare to Arthur and guides Ostara away.

Once they're far enough to not be overheard Ostara smiles at her brother.

"Thank you, Stannis... Truly."

"Did he hurt you?" Stannis demands.

"No, of course not."

 _What could you have done if he had?_

"Mother is looking for you though." Stannis says after a moment. "Said something about preparing for the melee tomorrow."

"Thank you, Stannis." Ostara says, moving to press a chaste kiss to her brother's cheek.

Stannis nods curtly before pivoting on his heel and making his way over to where Daevyn Sand is waiting for him, the Dornish bastard offers Ostara a happy smile and a tilt of the chin before he disappears with Stannis. They'll be training for a while, never let it be said that Daevyn Sand isn't just as attentive to Stannis' needs as he is to Ostara's.

The girl shakes her head, pats Rubeus on the flank, and pushes open the flap of the tent so her familiar can enter before her.

Cassana Baratheon is sitting in one of the chairs set around a small table the servants had set up for them, she's embroidering something into a strip of black cloth and Ostara only spares it a second of consideration before she lowers herself into the chair across from her mother. Her mother offers a kind smile and puts aside her embroidery.

"Stannis said you were looking for me." Ostara tells her mother, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Yes, I was wondering if you would like to come with me when I go to visit Lady Lannister." Cassana explains.

"Oh... Yes, I would not mind."

There is nothing wrong with Johanna Lannister. She'd been a kind woman when Ostara saw her last and she had seemed genuinely interested in Ostara. Honestly, she hadn't thought they'd be seeing Lady Lannister during their trip to Lannisport. Not when news of her current pregnancy being a difficult one. The letter Johanna Lannister had sent to Storm's End had told Cassana that the Maester of Casterly Rock had instructed Johanna to remain in bed as often as possible and to limit her daily activities to the more menial tasks.

If she had access to the ingredients Ostara could easily brew something to help with the strain the babe is putting Johanna's body through. Unfortunately, some of the ingredients would have to come directly from the Free Cities or Asshai and to ask for them specifically would rouse suspicion. Ostara thinks she could try substituting some of the less common ingredients but that would invite risks Ostara isn't willing to take.

"Excellent, she'll be so excite to see you... And so will the twins." Cassana says.

Something in her tone causes Ostara to lift an eyebrow in question. It's not an uncommon occurrence for her mother to attempt to get Ostara to befriend girls of higher birth then Cerys. Which is understandable in the sense that Ostara will not be able to take Cerys with her to King's Landing unless she goes as a personal maid. But even if Cerys were to go to King's Landing as a personal servant to the future queen Ostara would still need ladies in waiting. Women of noble birth to attend her in the gardens or to visit with her over tea.

Cerys would not be able to do so.

But while it is undertandable it's still rather annoying.

"How old are her children now? Four?"

"Yes, Cersei is supposedly very sweet."

"And Jamie?"

"Johanna says he is likely to take after his father."

"I see."

Her mother nods slowly before saying, "Go clean up, we'll leave in a bit."

"Yes, mother."

Cassana reaches out to brush back a wayward curl before leaning over to press a chaste kiss to Ostara's forehead.

Once her mother pulls away Ostara moves to exit her parents' tend and over to the one beside it. It is the one she has been given, it's small but not uncomfortably so, and Ostara enjoys the fact that Stannis' tent is on the opposite side of her own. Which means she won't have to sneak past her parents if she wants to cause a bit of mischief and drag Stannis along for the ride.

Ostara snorts quietly to herself as she moves to the basin of water waiting near her cot.

She dips the cloth in the water, drags it over her face, and puts it back before moving to redo her braids. When that's done she smooths out her dress, adjusts her necklace, and makes sure her wand is secured in her stocking before she heads back to her parents' tent.

Ostara pretends she doesn't notice the hooded figure staring at her from the shadows.

~X~

"Cassana, how lovely to see you again." Johanna Lannister says, eyes alight with joy.

Ostara offers the expected pleasantries before allowing herself to look about the solar they have been led to.

There are chairs scattered about, a table, and a little girl with golden curls and eyes the color of summer grass. She's very pretty for a child her age, unbelievably so. If Ostara didn't know any better she would almost think Cersei Lannister to be some sort of creature. Veela or Vampire or Faerie. Something with beauty meant to ensnare the mind.

But she does know better.

So she offers the little girl a smile and if almost shocked when Cersei offers one back.

"How are you, Johanna?"

Johanna pats her swelling stomach and shakes her head fondly, "He keeps me up all night and all day and my feet ache... But I am well enough to sew and eat and play with my children so it is not so bad."

"How much longer until it is born?"

"Three months yet. Mother said I could hold the babe when it's born." A soft voice says.

And Johanna laughs as she motions Cersei over. The little girl makes her way over to her mother's side and offers them a curtsy before moving to press against Johanna's legs.

Ostara watches Cersie watch her and smiles when the little girl blushes before pressing her face into Johanna's skirts. The older woman laughs and runs her fingers through Cersiei's hair causing the child to look up at her mother.

"Yes pet, I did, but perhaps for now you can settle with showing Ostara the gardens? There is much I must discuss with Lady Baratheon." Johanna says, her voice is a command however and the little girl must know this because she nods once before moving to take Ostara's hand.

She allows the child to guide her from the room, waiting until the door shuts to say anything to the girl.

"Will you be attending the tourney?" Ostara asks.

"Perhaps with father, I am not sure."

"Oh, well perhaps if you come we can watch it together? If you like."

 _Polite_ , she tells herself, _she is a child_.

Cersei does not reply, just guides her through Casterly rock, toward the gardens that flourish beneath a summer sun. Ostara doesn't force her to speak, just fills the silence with little observations about the garden as Cersei leads her to a bench hidden between two rose bushes.

Once they've settles Ostara reaches out to stroke the petals of a rose.

"I like roses." Cersei remarks after several long moments.

"They are very beautiful." Ostara replies.

And she offers the little girl her nicest smile. It seems to ease the girl a bit because she shrugs and begins kicking her feet through the air. There is something solemn in her eyes, something incredibly sad, that makes Ostara frown.

"Are you unwell, Cersei? I can call for a maester." She offers.

"No... I'm well."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Ostara asks. "I'm a very good listener and I'll not tell another soul."

Cersei stares at her for a long moment, then another, and another, until Ostara begins to worry she said something wrong. Before she can backtrack, however, and offer an apology for any offense Cersei says, "The Maester said mother's chance of surviving the birthing bed is low."

"Did he tell you this, Cersei?" Ostara demands, because she'll kill him.

She'll fucking kill him.

What kind of sick bastard says such things to a child? Especially one who doesn't quite understand what's going on but understands what' being said? It's not fair to Cersei or Johanna, both of whom will have to deal with the emotional fallout.

Luckily for the maester Cersei shakes her little head, finger fisting in her skirt.

"Jamie and I overheard father and the maester talking." She admits.

"Oh, I see."

"Do you think... Do you think that if I pray very, very hard the Mother with spare mine?" Cersei asks, eyes hopeful.

"I think that it wouldn't hurt to try. The Gods are not kind neither are they cruel. You can pray and they will do what must be done... Might I offer you advice?" Ostara questions, already reaching to pluck a healthy rose from the bush.

She removes the thorns with a detached sort of efficiency before moving the petals toward her nose. As she pretends to breath in the scent offered by the rose Ostara whispers every charm and spell she knows that will help Johanna Lannister through this pregnancy.

"I suppose."

Ostara smiles and offers the rose, which hums with her magic, and says to Cersei, "Give this to your mother. I find that gifts given by a child always lift a mother's spirits and I think that right now your mother would benefit from high spirits."

A moment passes before Cerei takes the rose, she fingers the petals a few times before offering Ostara the sweetest, most genuine smile the older girl has seen in the short time they've known each other.

"Thank you, Ostara." Cersei breathes.

Then she's gone, running through the gardens toward the keep. Ostara watches her go, fingers drumming against the seat of the bench the only sign of her worry as she's not sure it it'll help Johanna Lannister but she thinks there's enough magic waiting in that rose to do something. Even if it does nothing more then give the woman more energy at least it will do something.

Ostara sighs as she moves to return to the keep.

 _You are kind, gentle hearted soldier._

The fingers that weaves through her hair do not belong to a human but Ostara is not concerned. She merely takes the offered words for what they are and tuck them away with a soft smile before leaving the hooded figure standing in the garden between the rose bushes.

~X~

Dinner is a quiet affair. Very little is discussed aside from the happenings of the day and what is expected of them tomorrow. Ostara has heard it all before and waits until her father has stopped talking about his little visit with the King earlier that day to broach the question that has been nagging at her all afternoon since she'd heard the rumor from a passing squire.

"Father?"

"Yes, Ostara."

"Who is Maggy the Frog?"

Steffon Baratheon goes very, very still. His eyes are dull as he turns his attention to Ostara fully.

"Where did you hear of Maggy the Frog?" He demands.

"I overheard two squires discussing her when mother and I were returning from Casterly Rock." Ostara replies. "Is she dangerous, father?"

Steffon scoffs, "Not to you, Ostara. But many have wasted good coin and their own health on words that do nothing but cause trouble."

"So she is a... Witch?"

A look is shared between the two.

 _Is she like me?_ Ostara cocks her head to the side.

 _Yes, in a way_. Her father's eye reply.

"Listen to me, Ostara, Maggy the Frog is a fortune teller. The knowledge she possesses is dangerous and I'll not have you fretting over it." Her father states, tone sharp.

And Hermione Granger would have been annoyed to find the woman to be a prophet... But Ostara knows better. Because her father is _worried_ and Steffon Baratheon worries for nothing that does not need to be worried over. Which means that Maggy the Frog has some sort of magic that enables her to, at the very least, know certain things about individual people.

This is, perhaps, a very good thing.

"Of course not, father. I was only curious." Ostara lies.

And her father's answering nod is more a nod of permission than a nod of understanding.

Ostara hides her smile behind her cup as she sips at the water she'd been given to have with her dinner.

~X~

When Maggy was young when the first vision flashed before her eyes. A man with large blue eyes and peppered hair strangling a boy to death in an alley near her home. He'd gasped, raked his nails down his attacker's face, and then his body had gone still, still, still. When the images had faded Maggy screamed, the taste of the boy's blood hot on her tongue and lips from where he'd slapped her with an injured hand.

No one had believed her.

Not until the boy's body had been found days later.

Now she sits in a creaking wooden chair staring up at a girl with wild purple eyes and hair hidden beneath the hood of a cloak that is much too large and much too plain for someone of her stature. It is a cloak that could almost match that of the shadow creature hovering behind her shoulder. A cloak made of shadow and mist, meant to blend into the darkness of a forest at night and keep others from noticing her.

"Are you Maggy the Frog?" The girl asks, already moving to pull back the hood of her cloak.

"I am." Maggy smirks at the child, "Do you require something? A love potion perhaps? A cure for the pimples that will likely cover your pretty little chin?"

She is mocking the girl, Maggy knows this, she mocks all of the girls that come looking to have their fortunes told.

 _Silly little fools,_ Maggy thinks, _wishing to know that which should not be known_.

But the girl merely shakes her head and steps closer to the table as she says, "Nothing like that... I... I was wondering if, perhaps, you could help me."

"And what would a pretty little dove such as yourself need?" Maggy demands.

"I was hoping you could help me check in on someone."

At this, Maggy leans back in her chair. Shock and disbelief warring in her chest.

Because who is this child to be so disinterested with her future? Who is she to reject the gift Maggy would have eventually used to her advantage. Before the girl can react Maggy is lunging across the table to snatch the girl's wrist and pull her close so she can drag her tongue up the girl's neck where sweat has begun to bead. What she finds surprises her.

"You," Maggy cackles as he tosses the girl's hand back at her, "are lost, little witch."

"Yes."

"There is no way home for you, even I know this."

"As do I... But I had hoped that perhaps you could help me check on those who were lost to me? Please? I just... i want to know how they are."

Maggy frowns.

"It will not be pleasant for you, to know how your lost friends are doing without you in their lives." It's an honest statement, painful but not a lie.

The girl nods.

"Yes, i know."

"And yet you would have me look."

"I would."

"Why?"

The girl swallows and her eyes burn, burn, burn in the low light offered by the fire between them.

"They were, and will always be, my dearest friends."

Maggy leans back in her seat, fingers dancing on the hilt of her dagger. She has never attempted to look into the lives of others when their blood has not been offered, but then, she has never tasted the blood of another witch before either. So what would it hurt to try? If this little witch is so willing to hurt for the knowledge who is Maggy to deny her.

Without much though Maggy extends her hand.

The girl hesitates for but a moment before her hand settles in Maggy's.

And the red that drips from the cut caused by Maggy's blade is almost too red, almost too warm.

Almost too sweet on her tongue.

Maggy sucks hard on the injured finger, tongue digging into the wound to coax more blood to flow, and spits the finger out with a gasp as the girl's past and future and magic settles in Maggy's veins.

There is a child's laughter and a man's voice and the screams of drying men but there is also... Something else. Something soft and foreign and sad. Maggy clings to that, pulls it to the forefront of her mind and peels away the veil that prevents Maggy from seeing.

"Three questions," Maggy breathes. "You have three questions."

"How are they?" The girl asks.

"The Boy Who Lived is married now, with a babe on the way." Maggy says, watching as the dark haired man holds the fiery lass close. "And Ronald... He is well enough. He mourns you."

Something in the girl's face crumples.

"Oh... Are they happy?"

Maggy pauses, watching the girl and the lives of those she left behind. It's a difficult answer to give, really.

"They will be... In time. It is not so easy to be happy when something dear has been ripped from your life."

"I've... Hermione, I mean, has been dead for ten years."

"Months."

"What?"

"Ten months for them. Ten years for you." Maggy clarifies, careful to keep her tone... _Gentle_.

"Oh. I see. Well... I... May I sit?"

Before Maggy can answer the girl is lowering herself onto the small stool opposite of Maggy. She sucks in a few ragged breaths, face lowered to her knees, before she smooths back her hair. And Maggy watches, fascinated, for many have fallen into panic before her but none in the fashion this girl has.

Oh, many have come seeking to know who murdered their loved ones, if their wives would survive the birthing bed, if their marriage would be happy. This need to know about the fate of loved ones is not so new. But for the knowledge to effect the girl in this way... Maggy sighs.

Gods help her.

"You have one more question." Maggy reminds the girl.

"Yes, of course." Another shaky breath. "What happened to the men that attacked us? That day when..."

Maggy's eyes close for a moment, seeking out the answer she knows will likely not be pretty.

It isn't. Not entirely.

"Many died, your murderer included."

Many, not all.

The implication is not missed. Maggy watches as those wild, burning, sad Targaryen eyes go wide before they shutter and dull into something resembling a mask. The shadowy creature behind the girl bends at the waist, curving over her prone body like a snake, and reaches out to touch her cheek with gnarled fingers before it turns away and leaves the room.

Like a parent going to defend its child... Or a Lord moving to protect what is his.

Maggy isn't sure she wants to understand their relationship. After all, she is under no illusions as to what the being is. She might be able to see him, feel his presence, but it is not a man. It is not the Stranger. It is something much more infinite and theirs is not a relationship that is any of Maggy's business.

The thunk of a coin purse hitting the table top near frightens her.

"Your coin... I promised payment." The girl explains, smile obviously forced. "May the Gods be good to you Maggy the Frog."

"And to you."

A tentative smile, more genuine then the last, and then the girl is moving to leave.

Maggy watches the slump of her shoulders, the steadiness of her breath, and realizes that while there is a great sadness in the girl there is also joy. A relief almost that those she left behind will not suffer from her disappearance forever and that those who hurt her will be brought to justice.

And before the girl slips through the tent's opening Maggy finds herself speaking.

"Hermione Granger died, there is no way to change that, but life pays for life girl and yours was given to you for a reason," Maggy eyes the girl's future, sees the joy and the laughter and the tears and the battle cry that echos through frozen trees like thunder. "A girl alone cannot change the fate of this realm... But can a queen?"

When the girl twists to look at Maggy her eyes are hard but there is no cruelty there. No malice. And he offers a tight nod of understanding before disappearing from the tent. It is when she's gone that Maggy realizes, quite suddenly and without the help of her visions, that she's almost fond of the little to-be-queen.


	15. Chapter 15

Tourney's are boring. It's a realization Ostara comes to as she sits in the stands with her mother and a few of her mother's friends. All around her Ladies and Lords, who are either too old to participate in the events or two young to even be squired off, titter about who will win the melee or the joust.

Some believe that Tygett Lannister will win due to his prowess and his skills, others claim it will be Gerion Lannister due to his reckless, but most of the lot boast that it will be the Prince.

Prince Rhaegar who wears rubies and garnets imbedded in the chestplate of his armor. Prince Rhaegar who's silvery hair is braided like a crown around his head, Prince Rhaegar who Ostara watches from the corner of her eye as he and Ser Dayne laugh and jest with one another from where they stand together awaiting their turns.

Ostara tries to look their way as little as possible. Not because she's ashamed or because she's embarrassed but because she's aware that the longer she looks the more likely she'll be caught staring and if that were to happen she'd never hear the end of it from her mother's ladies or her brothers.

Gods forbid Robert ever hear of it.

So to occupy her time and alleviate her boredom Ostara observes the men and women around her while they watch, thrilled, as men are knocked from their horses. There are many that she does not recognize and some that she does. There are a few noble Lords and Ladies from the Stormlands and Riverlands, more then that from the Reach and more then that from the Westerlands.

Lords and Ladies that wear finely made outfits made of suprisingly thick fabric despite the heat. They sit in the stands surrounded by their peers beneath a blistering sun and their sweat creates little streams down their faces and necks before being caught in the collars of their gown or doublets. Some of the men dab at their heads with their handkerchiefs while the women fan themselves.

It doesn't helpt.

The heat is still opressive.

Ostara is thankful for her own dress, a gift from her mother made of light fabric that had been dyed a sort olive green. It's rather plain, the only ornaments on the dress come in the form of an intricate belt made of bronze. Combined with a subtle cooling charm Ostara finds that the dress is really rather comfortable to wear on a day such as today.

"Lady Ostara." One of her mother's friends says, pulling her attention away from a noble girl who's a bit too red in the face.

"Yes?"

"It is the Prince's turn to joust, Lady Ostara."

She bows her head in thanks and turns to watch as her betrothed guides his charger to his position. On the oposite end waits Tygett Lannister in all of his red armored glory.

There is a part of Ostara, no matter how small, that hopes the man with the lion engraved upon his chest will unhorse Rhaegar. Not because she wishes the Prince to lose. It has more to do with the fact that Ostara is a Lion wearing a doe's skin. Despite the loyalty, the pride, she has for her house Ostara still finds the image of that roaring lion... Bittersweet.

But to not cheer for her betrothed would be odd, would it not? If anyone were to see her clapping and smiling for Tygett Lannister, if the King were to see her rosponding more favorably to a man who is not his son... She doubts Aerys would do anything to Tygett Lannister but a quick glance across the stands to the raised platform where the King sits beneath a cloth awning has Ostara putting, perhaps, too much enthusiams into her cheers for Rhaegar.

Something about King Aerys makes Ostara's very skin crawl.

It makes the part of her that is still Hermione Granger want to scream and rage and draw her wand.

And while Ostara is more then capable of stopping Aerys, more then capable of killing him, should he ever so much as look at her in a way that is threatening she isn't so stupid as to try. Not when the King's Guard are loyal to him, not when the people would demand her head, not when it would end up getting her killed.

Beside her a woman gasps. Ostara believes it is Lady Melyssa, an old friend of her mother's, or perhaps Lady Enna. Ostara isn't sure, she isn't paying enough attention to be sure. Because Rhaegar and Tygett are charging one another, blunt ended lances raised, horses kicking up clumps of dirt as they're urged faster and faster until Rhaegar's lance catches Tygett in the shoulder.

The Lannister Lord is unhorsed. Only able to twist away from his horse enough to keep himself from being trampled by it as the destier races on.

A hushed sort of awe creeps over the crowd before it is broken by riotous applause and delighted cheers.

Ostara notes, with a huff of gentle laughter, that the people are cheering twice as loud for Rhaegar Targaryen as they did for Tywin Lannister. Louder still then they had for their King.

A quick glance at the aging, angry eyed man shows that he is just as aware of the crowd's joy as Ostara is.

~X~

"I am to be squired with Wyllam Morrigen." Stannis boats at lunch when the festivities break so that knights can tend to themselves and their mounts.

Ostara smirks at her brother from where she lays sprawled across his cot. It is too hot too eat, hotter still to lay across her own cot where Rubeus has made himself quite at home. So it is Stannis' bed she commandeers, with it's feather pillow and cotton bed clothes.

"Will you be leaving with them then? If you are to be a squire under the Morrigen's I don't see a reason for you to return to Storm's End with us at the end of the tounery."

It is not said out of cruelness. Ostara does not wish to see her brother go, he is her favorite brother after all. The only one with whom she shares memories of laughter and mischief after Robert left for the Eyrie. But he is of an age where it is prudent he be sent off to squire.

"Father and Lord Morrigen are discussing it, though, I suppose I won't be returning to Storm's End with you." Stannis replies, eyes softer then Ostara is used to seeing them.

Perhaps it is the fact that they will likely not see one another again until Ostara is married to the Prince.

She smiles, a sad twist of the lips, and says, "I suppose you are excited then? The Morrigen's are honorable and a trusted friend of the Baratheon's."

"I am content."

A long moment passes in which Ostara observes her brother.

He has grown since they left Storm's End. Nothing terribly noticable but enough to tell Ostara that by the next time they meet he will be roughly the same height as their father. Taller even, if the Gods have blessed him thus.

Ostara wonders if he will be taller then Robert.

"You will write, yes? I couldn't bare the thought of not speaking to you." Ostara admits after a moment. "Besides, if you weren't to write to me I would have nothing in the Capitol to entertain myself with."

"You'd have Ladies in Waiting."

"I'd have servants and women wishing to gain my favor. No true friends."

Stannis rolls his eyes. "You've always been so cynical, Ostara, but I will write to you none-the-less."

"And for that, brother, you have my eternal gratitude."

With that said Ostara drops her head back into her brother's pillow and begins tracing her finger over her belt.

He will leave her. If he is to squire with the Morrigens then he will leave her. Storm's End has never been lonely. Never, not with Daevyn Sand and Cerys. But Stannis has always been a constant in her life and he is leaving.

 _Leaving and you have not even told him the truth_.

Of course, their mother doesn't know either but it is different. Ostara loves her mother and thinks that to a certain extent Cassana is aware that Ostara is not entirely normal. Not entirely human. It's a lingering look in the eyes and a tension in the shoulders whenever Ostara speaks to Rubeus or sand steed from Dorne that has become a beloved companion as well.

But Stannis doesn't know.

 _He derseves to know_ , Ostara tell herself.

While it is something Ostara agrees with she finds herself apprehensive. Lies are not looked upon kindly when they are revealed and Ostara has been lying for a very long time. But has she been lying? Truly lying? Stannis has never asked if she was anything other than human, nor has their mother, neither have been told otherwise.

"Stannis." Ostara's voice is oddly steady, it does not reveal the turmoil she feels.

It does not show the fear that is begin to tighten its grip around her heart.

"Yes?"

"I have something very important to tell you," She whispers, rising to sit on the cot, "and I hope that you can understand."

Stannis' eyes narrow, his body going tight as his muscles tense.

And Ostara tells him everything.

Tells him in whispered breaths of magic and wands and how she was afraid to tell him... How she was a coward. And as she talks she removes her wand from the holster strapped to her calf. She casts a muffliato, the soft buzz filling the small tent and preventing outside ears from listening.

Stannis cringes, Ostara frowns.

She keeps talking.

By the end of it Stannis is angry. The signs are in the tension in his shoulders and the vein pumping rythmically in his neck. It is a calm rage though.

"Did you think," Stannis begins, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "that I would betray you? Is that why you did not tell me? Did you think that I, your brother, would hate you for this?"

"I was afraid."

"Because I'm not like you?"

"Because you are my brother."

Stannis sucks in a breath. The implication isn't quite clear. There are many ways he could have taken that. Ostara swallows.

"I was afraid that if I told you and something were to happen you would end up getting hurt."

"You're a fool."

"No... I'm cautious."

"A fool." This time it is said more softly, a tentative understanding coloring the tone.

Ostara smiles, a sad twisted thing, "Perhaps."

And Stannis makes his way across the tent, lowers himself onto the cot, and wraps an arm around Ostara's shoulders.

"This changes nothing." He promised.

"It changes everything." Ostara says.

In the silence that follows her statement they both realize how true a statement it is.

~X~

By the end of the day Rhaegar Targaryen has managed to unseat Gerion Lannister and twelve Westerland knights and Ostara is more then a bit put out by the tourney. Because people are clapping and cheering and gushing over the Prince as if each win is the first and it's so very, very tiring.

Ostara just wants to return to her tent and read.

At least Sir Dayne may prove more interesting then the westerland knights. There's a good chance he'll beat Rhaegar in the jousts. There's a good chance he could beat Rhaegar at just about anything that has to do with physical attacks. The Prince just seems less inclined to care about war games. Ostara's thankful, it means she won't have to deal with listening to him prattle on about battles and victories and conquests.

She pitties the poor woman that will one day marry Robert.

"Are you alright, Ostara?" Her mother asks, dragging her from her thoughts.

"Yes, I'm quite alright."

"Prince Rhaegar will be competing against Sir Dayne in a moment. That will be interesting, no?"

"I suppose, unfortunatley the novelty of the tourney has been lost to me."

A quick glance about tells Cassana more then she needs to know.

"Tomorrow is the melee, sweet girl, it will be different then."

Ostara... Highly doubts that.

"Perhaps, but even so I find that I'm less inclined to care after watching the jousts."

Why would she want to watch grown men beat eachother for the pleasure of others? She's seen enough bloodshed and violence to feel literal offence at the thought of the melee. War games. That's all they are. And while some of the knights have seen war others haven't and they think that the melee and a real battle are the same.

Her mother laughs, "Darling girl, tonight's the feast. You'll be officially introduced as Prince Rhaegar's betrothed. He will ask to wear your favour."

"And I suppose I'll have to watch him in the melee."

"Well," her mother says with a sort of amused smirk, "you don't necassarily have to stay. But it would be terribly rude if you did not."

In response to her mother's statement Ostara sighs and turns her attention back to Rhaegar Targaryen.

With his armor and helm it's easy to see why some call him the Last Dragon. It's more then a bit pointless to have ebony armor, if an opponent doesn't kill him the heat certainly might, but she supposes that it... Suits him. Or it might. Ostara doesn't know him well enough to say.

The letters they've taken to exchanging had become few and far between, neither having something to say but not willing to write it down on bits of parchment. And if personal information is not exchanged there becomes very little to talk about after a while. But occasionally he'll write or she'll send a raven. It works for the most part. They aren't strangers.

But they're not friends either.

Barely even acquaintences. Why should he feel obligated to ask for her favour? Why should she feel obligated to attend the melee and cheer for him? But that's the problem isn't it? Obligations?

They both have obligations. To their families, to their people, but never to themselves.

With a sigh Ostara turns away from her mother and watches.

Arthur Dayne rides upon a destrier with a dappled grey coat. His armor is simple, the only embelishments coming from the sigil carved into his breast and shoulder plates. If Ostara wasn't still suspicious of his intentions the night before she might have clapped for him alongside everyone else. Instead she sits silent and composed as Sir Dayne and her betrothed charge one another.

It happens in seconds but feels like longer.

One moment they are charging, lances raised, and the next Rhaegar is on the ground. There's a collective, shocked gasp from the crowd as Rhaegar's body sends up a small plume of dust, then people are cheering for Sir Dayen and Prince Rhaegar as the man in black armor pushes himself off the ground. Ostara claps with them, slowly and with more hesitance then the rest.

She can't tell if Rhaegar is limping because he is injured or because he's diroiented.

He hit the ground hard enough that Ostara would have told him to see a maester if she could.

A quick glance at Arthur Dayne shows the knight feels the same. His lips are pulled back in a smile but his eyes never once leave Rhaegar as the silver prince pulls off his helm. Smiling, laughing, lavender eyes so very, very sad.

 _It is not your business_ , Ostara tells herself as she rests her hands in her lap.

But the shadowy, hooded figure fading in and out from the corner of her vision has Ostara digging her teeth into her bottom lip and praying to the Old gods and the new that nothing unsavory will happen during the rest of the tourney.

~X~

That night Ostara dresses slowly and with great care. In an hour she and her family will be travelling to the small keep in Lannisport for the celebratory feast. She doesn't understand it. There will be many feasts in the next few days. One tonight to announce her betrothal to Rhaegar and to welcome those who came to honor the new prince, one tomorrow evening after the melee, and then one before the Lords and their families return to their homes.

It's ridiculous.

But she dresses in the gown the queen had gifted her and slips her feet into a pair of black slippers. Wrestling her hair into anything elaborate will take too much time so instead she takes a comb through her curls, plaits some of her hair so that the two braids keep the rest of the wild mass out of her face, and then she spells her hair to keep the humidity from affecting it too harshly.

"Ostara?" Her mother calls from just outside her tent, "Are you ready, pet?"

"Coming mother!"

Ostara turns to Rubeus.

"You'll be good won't you?" Ostara asks as she runs her fingers through her familiar's fur.

His rumble is her only response.

So Ostara places a chaste kiss between his eyes before turning and leaving her tent.

Outside her family waits.

Cassana and Steffon Baratheon wear their house colors in such a way that it compliments them instead of making them look like fools, Stannis has donned a fine doublet or royal blue and silver. They are all equally attractive and Ostara smiles as she moves to stand beside her brother. He smiles back, a thin twist of the lips but it is something.

"Are we ready then? Mustn't be late." Her father states, eyes flicking to where the keep waits in the near distance.

They'll be walking to the keep as it isn't a terribly long distance to walk. Ostara's looking forward to the exercise. But she supposes she understands her father's urging. It wouldn't do for them to be late to the feast, after all, especially not when one of the reasons there is even going to be a feast at all is to celebrate a royal betrothal.

"Yes, father." She and Stannis reply almost in unison.

Their father smirks.

"Well, come along then."

And he leads them through the labyrinth of dark tents and stables, up a winding stone path, and too the gates of the keep where a man in Lannister red bows to them. Ostara thinks, with more then a little amusement, that the man could be an entertainer if he so wished. He certainly has the grace and flair for the dramatic. But instead of laughing Ostara offers a small smile before following her father and mother into the keep.

~X~

Rhaegar and his father sit at a long table at the very end of the hall. Tywin sits with them, silent and stone faced as always. It is impossible not to notice Johanna's absence. It is impossible not to miss the King's roaming eyes.

Looking, looking, looking for a woman who will never be his to touch.

It is sad.

Pitiful.

Ostara is glad he has yet to spot her, glad his son seems disinterested, glad Tywin was smart enough to keep his pregnant wife away from a man who wants her to the point of obsession.

Thankfully her father guides their little party to a table not far from the Targaryens.

Ostara takes a seat beside her brother. She is fully aware of the eyes on her. The trauma and war Hermione Granger had suffered through, the muscle memory and awareness those experiences left her, force Ostara to acknowledge the sensation of someone's staring. Not like the curious gazes of Lords and Ladies who wish to view the future princess and, after that, queen. No, whoever is staring at her is not trying to be suble.

It is likely Aerys, or Tywin, or perhaps even a King's Guard member.

 _Don't look_ , she clenches a fist in her skirts, _don't look_.

She doesn't.

Around her maids and servants deliver food and wine to the tables of Lord and Ladies. Ostara watches them, smiles whenever one comes to serve her or her family. The kindness makes many of the servants blush. Perhaps unused to such blatant shows of gratitude from a woman so much higher in the social order then they are. It's a damn shame.

Minutes later, perhaps fifteen or twenty, Tywin Lannister stands and the hall falls silent.

Lords do not jape, women do not simper, children do not laugh, and the servants do not move.

Still, still, still, the hall is entirely too _still_.

"Lords and Ladies, thank you for attending the tourney. May the Gods smile upon you this night." Tywin greets, the politeness of his tone obviously forced.

She wonders what Aerys said to him.

Wonders if it had something to do with Johanna.

"Tonight we celebrate not only the union of two noble houses but the joyous birth of a prince. May Prince Viserys live long and prosperously."

Short, simple, to the point.

No one ever said Tywin Lannister beat around the bush.

But not those eyes are on her again. Those fucking eyes that must surely belong to Rhaegar Targaryen for who else would care so much as to stare at her so intently. Ostara keeps her attention firmly only the Hand of the King as he finishes his speach to the applause and congratulatory cheers of Lords and Ladies.

Soon she will have to exchange pleasantries with Rhaegar. But not yet. Right now she is free to eat and laugh with her family.

Unfortunately for her, ignoring Rhaegar Targaryen proves to be exceedingly difficult.

He has a way of drawing people in, making then want to be in his presence.

It starts when a Minstrel brings a finely made harp to the center of the hall upon the orders of a Lord who is already well into his cups. The men and women around her all but beg for him to sing, to play a song of such beauty that it moves even the gods to tears.

When Rhaegar finally relents it is after his father's hissed demand that he please the people who have come to wish their family congratulations.

Ostara watches him as he makes his way to the center of the hall.

Silver hair is unbound and falling around his shoulders like spidersilk. So fine and surprisingly thick that Ostara finds herself fascinated with the way is sways about the prince's shoulders. He is dressed in a red boublet, the outline of ebony scales embroidered onto his sleeves. Fitting though it may be Ostara finds herself mildly put out. Crimson and ebony are too harsh for his coloring. Ostara thinks he would look much more dashing in softer colors. Dusty reds, dove greys, and the colors of a dawn sky.

But... He does not look unattractive in his house colors.

In fact, Rhaegar Targaryen looks oddly fiece.

Ostara will later blame it on his cheek bones and the intensity of his eyes as his fingers begin to dance along the harp's strings.

And he truly is talented.

Blessed with nimble fingers and passion for his music.

It makes... It makes Ostara think of a boy with cracked glasses and another boy with fire for hair, it makes her think of winter nights spent around a roaring fire as the last of her peers left to see their families for the holidays, it makes her think of Luna Lovegood's painting... Hermione Granger's fave on a cracked ceiling conected to other faces, familiar faces, faces she will never see again, by a delicate golden chain made of one word written over and over and over again.

When Rhaegar stops playing his smiles and bows to the crowd, eyes scanning the hall.

They stop on Ostara.

Stop and linger far longer then necassary before moving on.


	16. Chapter 16

He wonders, in the roar of applause and the distant sound of shaking breaths being sucked in between quivering lips, if this is what people meant when they spoke of Ostara Baratheon. Wonders if the intensity of her eyes is what prompted Lords and Ladies to whisper about her oddness. Rhaegar would not be surprised if it were the reason for her eyes are unlike anything he's seen before.

When she'd first entered the hall Rhaegar had watched her with a sort of detached fascination.

How could this girl fascinate his father enough for the King to demand a betrothal? How could this girl barely out of her childhood be enough to shift Aerys' obsession from a Targaryen daughter and eventual sister-bride to a cousin of diluted Targaryen blood? Whatever the reason, Rhaegar had not seen it.

So he'd watched her as Tywin congratulated them on their betrothal, watched her as she smiled at servants, watches as she manged to get the typically stoic Baratheon son to chuckle at something she'd said that must have been rather funny. He'd even watched her from the corner of his eyes as he'd played the borrowed harp.

Whatever had fascinated his father enough to keep his interest fixated on the Baratheon girl Rhaegar had not seen. Not at first. Not until now.

Now he understands.

There is a certain intensity to Ostara Baratheon. It's all in her eyes. Eyes that are too sharp, too focused, too knowing. Rhaegar thinks that she should not have eyes like that... For even when she offers a smile, perhaps forced or perhaps not, her eyes are still sharp enough to cut Rhaegar to the very bone. And while he knows she is intelligent, more intelligent then many her age, they have never spoken or truly met outside of the letters they'd taken to writing all those months ago.

Vaguely, he wishes they'd continued a correspondence. It would have been less unsettling, he thinks, if he knew what Ostara was thinking. Knew what she thought about the betrothal or the tourney or his music. They never really spoken much outside of books that they both found interesting and the required questions about family and health. He wishes they had.

He is released from her stare when Arthur steps between them, smiling too broadly and too happily and Rhaegar considers Arthur a good friend but he isn't sure he appreciated the look in his off-purple eyes.

"Pretty thing," Arthur says when the lords and ladies around them have begun to speak loud enough to drown out their conversation. "Very polite."

"You've met I take it."

"Just yesterday, I came across the Lady Ostara and her pet exploring the tourney grounds.

 _Pet_.

The way Arthur says it is amusing. Like he isn't sure whether he's terrified of the shadowcat or enchanted by it.

Personally, Rhaegar finds himself rather weary of the beast.

He still remembers what happened the last time Baratheons came to Lannisport.

Ostara Baratheon's shadowcat had crushed a man's skull, bit down until skin split and the bone gave way beneath the pressure. Unrecognizable, a head made of mush, mutilated. All things Rhaegar had heard whenever someone spoke of that damned shadowcat.

A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth.

If his betrothed has a shadowcat that is so obviously loyal to her that it would protect her with such ferocity what does that say about her?

Like calls to like, after all.

"I find it hard to believe you just happened across her." Rhaegar replies, fingers idly stroking the intricate carving running up the pillar of the harp he's still standing beside.

Arthur shrugs.

"I was curious."

Curious. Of course he was curious. Arthur Dayne, while a good friend and confidant, has always been too curious for his own good. It'll get him killed one day if he's not careful... But Rhaegar cannot fault Arthur for his curiosity when it comes to Ostara Baratheon.

A quick glance at the girl shows that she has been brought before the king.

Something in Rhaegar's stomach knots as he watches his father interact with the girl who will one day be his wife.

Glassy lavender eyes rake up and down Ostara's figure as Aerys speaks about something rather personal if the tension in the girl's shoulders is anything to go by. Rhaegar can only imagine what he's saying. Something inappropriate no doubt. His father has never been able to hold his tongue, whether he's well into his cups or no. It does not help that his betrothed has been left alone in the presence of Aerys.

But Tywin lingers alongside Lord Steffon. Both men hove at the very end of the long table his father had insisted be brought. If Rhaegar hadn't been looking he wouldn't have thought anything of it but he is looking and the two men are only just far enough away to offer the appearance of privacy to the King. Rhaegar watches for a moment longer before stepping around Arthur and making his way over to the put an end to whatever conversation Aerys is forcing the girl to endure.

"And my son's song? You enjoyed it?" He hears his father ask.

"I found it quite entertaining, your grace." Is her reply.

Rhaegar steps up beside Ostara and when his father notices him something in those glassy eyes turns sharp and angry. There is only one reason his father would be so annoyed with Rhaegar's presence and the prince stops himself from reaching out, curling his hand around Ostara's arm, and pulling her closer. He does not have the liberty to do so.

Not yet.

"I'm sorry to interrupt but I fear we've yet to be properly introduced." He says to the girl with the vivid purple eyes.

He does not reference the letters he has kept hidden away or the book she had sent to him nearly four moons ago. He does not say anything because his father does not know and what is the point in bringing it up before him when it is none of his business.

She offers a tense smile and curtsies as it custom.

"An unfortunate circumstance I'm afraid."

"Have not met," His father scoffs. "Leave me, there is much I wish to discuss with my hand and my cousin."

Rhaegar takes the opportunity to guide Ostara away from his father with a gentle smile and a hand curled around her elbow. It is the only liberty he will allow himself. The only one she will let him take.

Once they're away from Aerys and his eyes and his ever growing interest in Ostara, which Rhaegar finds vaguely disturbing as he's not sure what his father's interest is exactly, the prince turns to face Ostara and finds her staring at him.

Up close, her eyes are not so much intense as they are unnerving.

"I suppose I should thank you." Ostara remarks, tone dry.

"No thanks are necessary, Lady Ostara, it is in our best interests that we get to know one another." Even to him the words sound false.

 _I did not want you near my father_ , he wants to say, _he is known to take interest in fair maidens that peak his interest_.

"Well, thank you none-the-less." Ostara turns her head toward the raised dais upon which his father is speaking with Tywin and Steffon.

Silence fills the air between them. It is not uncomfortable, nor is it peaceful. This is a silence that allows them to study one another away from prying eyes and whispers. Rhaegar is thankful for this opportunity as it allows him to truly observe his wife-to-be.

She is tall, but not so tall as him, the top of her head only coming to his chin. He suspects she'll grow a bit more but otherwise remain around the same height. Her hair is long and the curls seem soft despite their wildness, she's inherited her mother's mouth and her father's jaw, and slender fingers.

Fingers that were made for music and art.

"I congratulate you on the birth of the Prince. I'm sure your mother is happy."

"Delighted."

"I am glad." It is said with a smile that softens the acute sharpness of her eyes.

And it sounds so genuine. So different from the vultures who had congratulated his parents and himself for Viserys birth but whispered about infidelity when his mother mourned the loss of her children. This girl does not speak of infidelity or betrayal, her eyes are not cold with malice, she does not simper at him or bat her eyes as she speaks as if she were expecting her admittance of her pleasure to garner his affections.

He remembers his mother speaking of Ostara. Telling him about a girl with ancient eyes and a heart like liquid sunshine.

He'd thought it all terribly poetic. Thought that perhaps his mother, in her grief over another lost babe, had latched onto the girl who would one day be her good daughter.

Rhaegar thinks he might have been wrong.

~X~

"Will you be attending the melee tomorrow?" Rhaegar asks after a time, it is expected that he ask for her favour.

He finds he would not mind wearing it as much as he might have.

Ostara Baratheon, for all of her intensity, really is very kind and Rhaegar finds that there's a certain amount of relief that fills him the longer they spend time in each other's presence. He would not have liked to have a wife he could not stand and at least with Ostara he believes they will at least have a comfortable marriage.

"I will be."

"You seem hesitant."

"I dislike the melees." Ostara admits with a slight shrug, as if the information means nothing.

"Is there any specific reason? Perhaps I could have something done about it."

Something cold and hard and fierce flashes in her eyes before it fades into a distant chill. Rhaegar realizes that he has either said the wrong thing or there is a very good reason his wife-to-be does not enjoy the melees.

"There is no reason specifically."

"Ah."

More silence.

At the other end of the hall a minstrel begins to sing, his fingers sliding over the strings of his instrument. Rhaegar takes a moment to admire his skill and ease at which the minstrel plays his instrument. He takes a moment to silently note any mistakes the minstrel makes that others would have certainly missed.

After a time he grows bored of the Minstrel and turns to speak with the girl standing beside him. He finds her watching two Lords of House Drox stumble past them, muttering about Maggy the Frog and her fortunes. Rhaegar frowns. He'd heard about the witch doing business in the forest just outside of Lannisport but Rhaegar had never paid the woman much attention.

Ostara, however, seems vaguely interested.

"Would you like to know your fortune, Lady Ostara?" He inquires as the two lords stumble off.

"No," Ostara turns her attention to meet his gaze.

"May I inquire as to why?"

Her smile is too sharp and too cold as she replies with a soft, "Why would I want to torture myself with the knowledge of what my life will bring? I have much more important things to think about."

Before Rhaegar can ask her anything else Ostara Baratheon is offering him a polite goodbye as she curtsies, then she's gone. Disappearing into the crowd only to reappear seconds later standing beside her brother. The older boy offers a tense upward tilt of the mouth before offering his hand to her. Ostara takes it with a laugh and allows her brother to lead her to the middle of the hall where other Lords and Ladies are dancing.

They do not speak again that night.

~X~

Later, after the Lords have left and Rhaegar has returned to his tent the prince lays across his cot and thinks about Ostara Baratheon.

 _Why would I want to torture myself with the knowledge of what my life will bring?_

Why indeed.

Rhaegar sighs. There will be no sleep for him tonight. An unfortunate occurrence but one he is used to. He has spent many nights lately lying awake in his bed wondering about the future of his kingdom.

He wishes he had Ostara's ease of mind. He wishes he had her innocence. Unfortunately he is not so lucky and the wait of so much rests upon his shoulders. He wonders if Maggy the Frog would be able to do anything about it? Help him to understand the prophecy he'd found scrawled across aged, crumbling parchment in a book long since forgotten in the libraries of the Red Keep.

From what Rhaegar understands the Prince that was Promised would be born from a union of ice and fire.

The Prince that was Promised would be born of his blood.

But how can that be?

Ice and fire.

Rhaegar presses his lips together before rolling off the bed and slowly making his way to the small table in his tent with only the use of dim torchlight slipping through the flap of his tent to light his way.

Once he's reached the table Rhaegar lights the candle, watches the flame flicker and weave before burning strong. Without thought he holds his palm above the candle so that the flame licks and whispers at his flesh.

There is heat but there is no pain, no damage left on the skin when Rhaegar pulls his hand away.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _a union of Ice and Fire indeed_.

Unfortunately there is a problem.

Ostara Baratheon is not born of ice.

And yet... And yet...

Rhaegar runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the loose strands, and blows out the candle before returning to his cot.

Sleep does not come for some time. Rhaegar tosses and turns and sighs with every minute that slips by. Outside he can hear guards talking, laughing, makign bawdy jokes as they do their patrols.

 _Go to sleep,_ he tells himself, _sleep will do you some good_.

And after what seems like hours Rhaegar's mind finally slows enough for sleep to claim him.

~X~

He dreams of a King's Landing, of the Red Keep, of Maegor's Holdfast.

There is a room that is vaguely familiar too him but he can't be sure because there is nothing but blinding white light flying through the window, reflecting off of every shining surface in the room.

Rhaegar flinches away from the light, twisting to lay on his side, and comes face to face with a child.

It is enough to startle him. Enough to make him jerk away from the little body curled up in the space between him and-

"Stop." A voice, rough with sleep, cuts through the white light. "You will wake her."

He does, stop that is.

Because he knows that voice. He'd only just spent the past evening speaking with the owner. Of course, Ostara Baratheon sounds older now but it is still her voice. Without realizing it Rhaegar relaxes just enough to settle into the pillows. He squints into the white light, only managing to just make out Ostara's figure. There is nothing distinguishable.

Not even the child, who is merely half a foot from him, is distinguishable.

Everything about them is washed out by the white light that glints around the room.

"What is this?" Rhaegar asks even though he feels like a fool.

"This is us."

"Us?"

"Yes."

"I do not understand."

"Hmm... Go to sleep, Rhaegar."

 _No_ , he wants to bark, _I will not sleep_.

He wants answers.

But there is a grey haze at the edges of the white light that grows darker and darker and darker until their is nothing but empty black space and a voice like fog and mist and wind brushing dead leaves across stone floors whispering about battle and monsters and a girl with magic in her veins.

~X~

When he wakes up in the morning it is to the hum of activity and the smell of food waiting on his table. Rhargar rubs the sleep from his eyes, rolls over, reaches for... Something.

He frowns.

Aside from the smell of bacon and the unmistakable signs that Arthur had been in his tent Rhaegar can find nothing out of place or moved from their original spots. Which means that no one had entered his tent to steal from him while he slept. And he certainly hadn't slept with anything within grasp save his sword, but he had placed that at the foot of his cot _not_ beside him and when he looks he confirms that the sword has not fallen.

Perhaps it was his dream. He can't remember it, of course, but he believes that the lingering sense of something missing is merely a product of his imagination.

It gives him some peace of mind as he rises from his cot to dress and eat.

Breakfast is simple. Toast and bacon and eggs. He eats it quickly and covers the tray before turning to step out of his tent where finds Arthur and Sir Selmy waiting. He offers both a soft smile, barely that really, and moves to secure his scabbard.

"Your highness." Sir Selmy greets.

"Sleep well did you?" Arthur asks, eyes bright with glee.

Rhaegar wonders if he might have said something earlier when Arthur entered his tent. Assuming he doesn't talk in his sleep would be foolish but he hopes that if he had spoken while still in the throes of his dreams that whatever was said would not be... Too embarrassing.

"Well enough." Rhaegar replies.

And Arthur's smile turns downright feral.

"Good, you'll need all the energy you can get if you want to impress your little bride-to-be. I hear she absolutely hates the melees." Arhur chortles.

"Yes, I am aware of Lady Ostara's disinterest." Rhaegar admits.

Something in Arthur's eyes dim, "You don't seem so disappointed."

"The tourneys are a way to entertain the people, Arthur, it is not my place to be upset over whether or not someone enjoys them."

Arthur opens his mouth but Sir Selmy steps forward, hand on the pommel of his sword.

"We'd best be going," it is not a suggestion, "much to do in so little time to do it before the tourney begins."

Neither of them argue. Neither of them would dare. Because Barristan Selmy is their friend and their mentor and he is a fierce warrior. If Rhaegar were a lesser man, a weaker man, he would almost fear Barristan Selmy.

But he does not and so it is with a nod that he turns to make his way to the tourney grounds.


	17. Chapter 17

There is a smear of blood from the center of the man-made arena to the area where the knights and Lords participating in the melee are waiting. A maester is kneeling over the green Knight who'd only just moments ago been fighting a westerland knight.

It's not good.

Already the blood coloring the sand is congealing, turning a strange rust color as it mixes with the sand and dries.

Ostara looses sight of the poor boy when two more knights step out to draw the crowd's attention away from the dying boy in the grass that's choking on his blood and his own spit. If Ostara were able to get to him before he died without anyone spotting her she'd be able to save him. Hermione Granger might have been an Unspeakable but she'd been a practiced healer too.

Perhaps not classically trained but a severed carotid artery would have been easy for her to fix.

Unfortunately, Ostara is stuck in the stands between her stern eyed father and a pale Noble Lady who looks like she might be sick any moment. Without much thought Ostara leans over to speak with her father.

"Father," Ostara whispers just loudly enough to be heard over the gasps and clang of metal, "will they not postpone the tourney? Seek the boy medical aid?"

"No pet, they will not." Is her father's terse reply.

Ostara has a thing or two to say about that but she knows this is neither the time nor the place and so she settles back on the bench, tries not to stare at the blood or the boy or the way the maester's hands tremble with his age.

 _He is safe in my arms, sweet eyed savior._

She does not turn to look at the being hovering over her shoulder. But then, she doesn't need to. Because Phil is already kneeling in the dirt, reaching out with a spindly finger to brush across the dead knight's wound. Ostara watches as something very similar to a ghost but with, perhaps, a bit less substance rises from the dead knight's body.

Without much thought Ostara allows her gaze to drift over the people who have come to settle around the maester.

Arthur Dayne is there, so are a few other Kingsguard Knights that Ostara does not recognize. None of them seem to be aware of Phil or the dead knight's soul. None of them seem to care. Ostara isn't entirely sure why she's so surprised.

Death is a fact of life in this world.

There is no elongated life span, no advanced technologies that can bring people back from the brink of death. In this world something as simple as the flu could kill you without a maester's remedies. It shouldn't come as a shock that the maester had been unable to fix the cut artery.

A freak accident, but an accident that cost a boy his life.

Ostara glances as the Westerland Knight who'd cut the boy. He doesn't seem all that remorseful. He doesn't seem to care.

 _Fact of life_ , Ostara thinks as she turns her attention back to the melee.

Ser Barristan Selmy is fighting against a knight from the Reach. He's a wonderful fighter in Ostara's opinion, tactical and reasonable, there is no flashy spin of his sword nor cutting words. Ostara respects that, appreciates it even. She thinks, in a sort of distant way, that she could enjoy the melee if all of the soldiers participating fought the same way ser Selmy does.

Like it's an actual fight.

Like one misstep could get someone killed.

When Ser Selmy finally beats the opposing knight of house Ambrose Ostara claps, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

"You enjoyed the fight then?" Her father asks when he sees Ostara clapping.

"Hardly," is the dry response, "but I can appreciate a knight who fights with practicality."

Her father laughs, a gentle little chortle that makes Ostara smile widely.

"Perhaps it would please you then to hear that once you arrive in King's Landing you will have many opportunities to speak with the man."

Whether or not it's an attempt at implying something on her father's part. They both know Ostara will be unable to take Daevyn Sand with her to King's Landing as Bastards are not looked upon kindly in most places and to bring him would be to invite rumors that Ostara cannot afford to invite.

So would it be foolish to ask Ser Barristan to help her? Train her? Protect her?

"Pleasing or no, I doubt I'll be able to speak to Ser Selmy as often as you suspect."

They both cast a glance at the King.

But when her father turns away Ostara's gaze remains steady.

There are so many spells. Ostara could give him antlers, could make him shrivel like a raisin, she could make him taste nothing but vinegar every time he ate something pleasant. Of course, there are darker curses Ostara could perform. Things so horrible that not even Hermione could reason away their classification as Dark Magic. But she's better then that.

Even if he isn't.

Ostara turns away, a certain kind of hate bubbling in her chest.

She's never had any special love for the king, he's her father's cousin and of no close relation to her, and yet she'd given the King the benefit of the doubt. A mistake Ostara will never make again.

Oh, he'd been pleasant enough. Asking if she enjoyed the joust, asking after her health, asking if she found her studies interesting even if asking the question seemed to cause him a fair amount of pain. Ostara has remained pleasant, speaking as little about her interests as possible and telling him what she knew he'd expect to hear. She had not, unfortunately, prepared herself for the more invasive questions about her body and the possibility of her passing down more favorable traits.

"Targaryen blood runs strong is your veins, in Rhaegar's too, I have no doubts that any children you produce will take on the Targaryen coloring." Aerys had said it so blatantly, so coolly, that Ostara had thought he was joking.

Joking, however, he was not.

And Ostara had bitten her tongue, had stopped the angry words from spilling out.

Because Hermione Granger had dealt with prejudices and cruelty, but it was different in a way. In the wizarding world there was more of a focus on blood status and breeding then the color of a witch or wizard's skin. Hermione had dealt with off handed comments, yes, but she'd been targeted mainly for her blood status.

Cassana's grandmother had been a noble woman from the Summer Islands, she'd married a Dornish Lord, they'd had several children, and Cassana's mother had married the Heir of House Estermont. It's all biology, genetics. What does it matter if Ostara's skin is two or three tones darker then this noble woman's or that Lord's? What does it matter if her mother's skin is like rich coffee or that her brother's skin is more tan then anything else? What does it matter?

Vindictively, Ostara hopes that Aerys chokes on the bread and cheese he's been nibbling for the past hour.

Across the arena Rhaegar is preparing for his own turn to fight.

Ostara isn't sure what to think of Rhaegar. He'd been polite, kind even, and he's kept her company despite the fact that after he'd rescued her from his father's presence he hadn't needed to stay. But he did. And that makes all the difference.

Despite not knowing one another Ostara thinks that their marriage has potential to be more then just a political match.

Or not.

It's hard to tell at the moment.

But whether Ostara and Rhaegar find love in their marriage or not the girl still wants something stable. Friendship would be preferable but Ostara thinks she could settle for companionship and fondness. As long as it is not hate. As long as she does not dread the idea of him helping to raise whatever children they might one day have. Besides, love is every changing. Even if there is no romantic love Ostara could love Rhaegar the way Hermione loved Harry Potter or Ginny Weasley or Neville Longbottom.

They'd have to work for it, of course, you can't get something from nothing.

So when her betrothed finally steps out of the shaded area where the knights way and into the arena, sunlight glinting off of ebony armor, Ostara claps alongside every other Lord and Lady, though not as enthusiastically and certainly not as loudly.

She watches as Rhaegar removes his sword from its sheath, watches as the Westerland knight charges, watches as Rhaegar ducks away from the other knight's blade and brings his own up to block sloppily executed swing from the other knight.

Daevyn Sand has been teaching her for some time now, Ostara knows the difference between a well executed move and a poor one. She also knows when someone isn't paying attention. The Westerland knight is older then Rhaegar, he's fought in wars, and it shows in every swing and jab of his sword. It makes him sloppy. Makes him predictable.

All too soon the westerland knight's sword is lying in the sand beside him, his body brought to its knees by a well delivered kick.

Ostara watches as Rhaegar pulls off his helm with one hand and offers the other to the knight on the ground.

People are cheering, clapping, roaring their approval of Rhaegar as he helps the other knight to his feet. Ostara claps alongside them.

Rhaegar smiles, a soft twist of the lips that Ostara finds mildly endearing, and bows his head to the masses which only makes then cheer louder. But while everyone else is focused on Rhaegar, Ostara is looking at Aerys.

The King is not pleased.

He sits on his makeshift throne, a petulant frown marring his features, and claps slowly. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the King is jealous of the praise and attention Rhaegar gets from both nobles and common folk alike.

 _This_ , Ostara thinks as she turns her attention away, _could be a problem_.

For it is fairly possible Aerys will fall to the Targaryen madness and then what? His jealousy of Rhaegar will only grow and with another son tucked safely in King's Landing who's to say the king won't do something drastic?

Ostara presses her lips into a firm line and forces the thought to the back of her mind.

She can deal with it later, deal with Aerys and his madness later, but for the moment she'll watch the melee and try not to think about the possibility of Rhaegar turning out just as mad as his father.

~X~

"I'm going to take Rubeus for a walk." Ostara tells her parents later that day.

They've only just returned from the melee. Ostara isn't sure who won, some knight from the Reach, but it had been a relatively interesting match between the champion and the knight who'd lost. Even Stannis had mentioned it as their small family had made its way back to the tents.

"Very well, be safe." Her father says, eyes hard.

Ostara nods obediently before darting to her own tent to fetch the waiting familiar from where he is resting on her cot.

When she enters through the flap separating her tent from her parents' Rubeus raises his head, eyes knowing, and slowly climbs off the bed. Ostara moves closer so she can drag her fingers through his fur before moving to the small table where her jewelry box rests. She pulls of the heavy gold she'd chosen to wear that morning and drops the pieces in the magically expanded inside of the jewelry box.

Near the entrance of the tent Rubeus yowls at her.

"You're a child." Ostara mutters as she shuts the lid of her jewelry case.

Rubeus paces back and forth in front of the entrance before shooting outside when Ostara pulls open he flap. She follows behind, careful to keep an eye on her familiar but not attempting to stop him as he bounces around on the path in front of her.

Squires and servants give them both wide berth, not wanting the large Shadowcat to accidentally knock them to the ground or to somehow anger the young Lady following behind. Ostara smiles at a few of them but doesn't linger long enough to strike up a conversation of any sort. Instead she follows behind Rubeus until they reach the last of the tents at which point she calls him back to her side.

He rubs his head against her thighs and hips, circling her body over and over again until Ostara's forced to shove him away from a rumble the familiar allows Ostara to lead him through the short bit of forest they end up wondering through until Ostara finds herself standing on white sand.

A glance around shows that there isn't anyone around except her. Everyone who would come this way are either preparing for the feast or heading to the taverns in Lannisport instead. Ostara still erects a few barriers though, little things that will keep anyone intending to harm her away and notify her if anyone comes within one hundred feet of her little stretch of beach.

When all of the barriers are erected and Ostara feels safe enough to let down her guard, she wonders over toward where the ocean is turning the sand a pale off-sort-or-grey and sits down in the sand to watch as Rubeus trots over to the water's edge.

He bats at the receding waves with a giant paw, face twisting in shock when the water slips away from him. His eyes are wide when he turns to look at her, as if seeking some sort of confirmation, but his attention is soon grabbed by something in the water which causes him to pounce into the shallows of the ocean.

Ostara watches for several minutes before transfiguring her dress into a pair of breeches and a tunic. It's been so long since she's had an opportunity to swim. The ocean bordering Storm's End is turbulent at best, dangerous no matter what. Only fools would dare to swim in those waters. Even ships wait until there is a semblance of calm before attempting to navigate them.

But the waters here are calm and warm and Ostara wades further away from shore with a sense of security she would never have at home.

All the same, she casts a spell on herself to keep her from drifting off to sea and keeps her wand on her just in case. Because it's better to be prepared for the worse then to be prepared for nothing at all.

Closer to shore Rubeus bounces through the water, pounces on his reflection, and tries to catch whatever catches his fancy. Ostara watches him for several moments before moving to float on her back. Above her the sky is blue with the beginning tinges of pink and orange mixed here and there, occasionally a bird with colorful feathers with fly over her head, but for the most part it is silent.

Calm.

Ostara closes her eyes, fingers skimming through the water, sunlight warming her skin.

She thinks that if things were different and she'd been born a common girl instead of a high born lady then there would be nothing keeping her on land. She'd get herself a ship, a familiar, and she'd just travel. Sail from this place to that place and see what the world had to offer without having to worry about duties or family or disappointing anyone.

 _Plunk_.

Something moves through the water beneath her causing Ostara to jerk up out of her position.

For a moment she thinks it's a shark, for a moment she considers whipping out her wand and hauling ass back to shore, but Ostara's a smart, logical girl and after a moment of careful deliberation she decides that it isn't a shark. Whatever is in the water with her is too big to be a shark anyway.

 _Get back to shore_ , Ostara thinks as she begins moving back to where Rubeus is digging in the sand. He seems so far away, so small, and Ostara begins to wonder if her spell is working or if she'd been pulled into open waters.

Either way, she begins swimming back as calmly and as smoothly as she can.

Because whatever's in the water with her is likely hungry and frantic movements mean food for most predators.

It doesn't matter though, Ostara only makes it a few feet before every hair the back of her neck stands on end. There is, and Ostara is very aware of this, something in the water behind her. Something that hasn't attacked yet. Something she can defend herself against. Without thinking Ostara turns to face whatever has decided to see if she'd be good entertainment.

She... Isn't expecting to come face to face with intelligent black eyes that regard her more curiously then anything.

"Hello." Ostara greets, voice weak even to her own ears.

The creature rises further out of the water so that she can see more of it's head, which allows Ostara to identify her newfound companion. It's a sea dragon. One of the very creatures Ostara thought to be extinct... She'd laugh at her own foolishness if she weren't so afraid.

But the sea dragon, with it's angular body and bio luminescent scales glinting in the water beneath them, doesn't move to attack. It doesn't do much of anything really. Just kind of sits there in the water waiting for Ostara to do something. She doesn't, of course, even if her arms and legs are getting tired from keeping her head above water.

They just... Stare at each other.

Ostara isn't sure where the bravery comes from but she finds herself reaching out to let her hand hover in the empty space between them.

She can make herself a new hand, but she thinks it won't come to that.

And it doesn't, because the sea dragon is moving to press it's snout against Ostara's palm and for a moment there is nothing but magic and the crackle of static and gentle warmth.

 _Like calls to like, I suppose,_ she remembers Kingsley saying when she'd run into a wizard from Africa that the minister had meant to introduce her to, _or power to power_.

Ridiculous though the statement might have been at the time Ostara thinks there's something honest about it. Especially now when this creature, older then she is and far more deadly, is taking comfort in the magic saturating her body. It's starving, unable to take nutrients from the magic of others of its kind because, well, there probably aren't many left.

Stories, after all, hold some truth to them and most people believe that Sea Dragons have been extinct for hundreds of years.

"Rhaegar, wait!"

Ostara whips around as the voice reaches her ears, behind her there is a loud splash and when she looks back the sea dragon is gone. Nothing to verify it ever having been there at all save for the magic lingering in the air and Ostara's memory.

With a sigh she turns and makes her way back to shore just as Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne appear on the beach.

Rubeus growls at them, hackles rising, and Ostara watches as both men stiffen at the sight of bared fangs and wild eyes. She rolls her eyes as she steps out of the water.

"Enough." The command is firm, leaving no room for disobedience, and Rubeus turns away from the two men in order to move to his master's side.

Arthur relaxes, a dazzling smile stretching across his face, and when he sees her he cries, "Lady Ostara! We did not see you!"

"Well," Ostara replies as she begins twisting the excess water out of her hair, then her clothes, "I was further out so I would suspect not."

"Dangerous, don't you think, to be swimming away from shore?" His tone is jovial but his eyes are worried.

Ostara snorts, "No more dangerous then playing with swords, Lord Dayne."

"And yet I have been trained to play with swords."

"I've noticed." Ostara flings wet hair over her shoulder, crosses her arms, and smiles. "Congratulations are in order I suspect, to you both, for your respective triumphs at the melee."

"You were there." It is not a question but it is the first thing Rhaegar has said to her since the feast the night before.

"Yes, I was."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was tolerable."

"I see."

From the corner of her eye Ostara sees Arthur's shoulders sag as he releases a silent breath.

He is disappointed. But at who? And for what reason? Surely he hadn't been hoping that Rhaegar would engage in a flirtatious conversation with her while in his presence, not when she is still considered so young. Perhaps he'd hoped that any interactions between her and Rhaegar would be a bit less formal. More personal. It would make more sense for him to be disappointed then.

"Do you enjoy swimming, Lady Ostara?" Arthur inquires after a moment.

"Yes, unfortunately it's hardly safe to go swimming near Storm's End."

"I would recon not."

Silence stretches between the three of them, growing more and more awkward the longer they stand there. Eventually Ostara realizes that neither men are going to say much else and so she taps the palm of her hand against the outside of her thigh, causing Rubeus' head to jerk in her direction and quickly after rise up from where he'd stretched out in the sun-warmed sand.

Ostara offers the two men a polite grin.

"Well, I'd best be going." She moves to step past them, only stopping when Rhaegar reaches out to snag hold of her sleeve.

"Allow us to escort you, Lady Ostara." Rhaegar offers when Ostara whips around to stare at him.

"If it please you, your highness."

Rhaegar nods once and offers his arm. Ostara merely raises an eyebrow, glancing between his finely embroidered doublet and her own soaked shirt. A blush, pale pink and barely noticeable, stains his cheeks but he still offers her his arm. And after a brief moment of pause Ostara takes it, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, careful to keep the cuff of her sleeve from touching anything.

The smile Rhaegar gives her is soft, maybe even a bit surprised, and Ostara finds that he looks much more handsome when he's smiling then when he's not.

She thinks she'd like to see many more of those smiles.

~X~

Gold silk, Ostara decides as she allows a young knight to guide her through the hall in a dance, is perhaps a bit too bold for her tastes.

The fabric seems to catch the light offered by the various candles and torches scattered around the hall to offer light to the dimming room. Catches it and holds it, reflecting it back at the crowd in shades of muted orange and pale red. It'd be pretty if there wasn't a potentially mad man staring at her from across the hall.

Every time her dance partner swings her around the room Aerys manages to catch her eye, every time she's turned away his gaze follows her, it's disconcerting.

Creepy.

It makes Ostara's skin crawl.

But what is she to do right now? Curse him? Right, that would go well for her.

Ostara tries not to grind her teeth or clench her jaw or glare at the knight dancing her around the hall. He's from the Stormlands after all and wouldn't deserve to be harassed even if he wasn't. Still, she wishes he'd keep her away from the ridiculously long table where Rhaegar and his father are sitting. But as there's nothing she can really do about it Ostara just has to deal with it.

The moment the song ends Ostara curtsies to her partner before rushing back to where she'd last seen Stannis.

Thankfully he's still there, scowl and all. Ostara smiles sweetly as she moves to nudge her brother's shoulder. He glowers at her.

"Stop it, this is supposed to be enjoyable." Ostara laughs.

"Enjoyable to whom?"

Ostara glances around the hall.

Lords and Ladies are dancing, knights are drinking, and servants are weaving between people to bring wine and food to guests. Some of the common women are being perused by Lords but as none of them seem terribly disinterested in the attention Ostara doesn't see the need to interfere with and possible couplings.

"Let's leave." Ostara suggests.

"What?"

"Mother and Father are otherwise preoccupied and no one would notice if we left."

Stannis gives her a look of blatant disbelief but nods anyway. Before they leave Ostara makes sure to catch her parents' gazes before she smiles and leads Stannis to a side door where servants have been entering and exiting the hall. She casts a notice-me-not over the two of them before they even reach it but not before their parents catch her intention to leave through the servants entrance. They slip through undetected by anyone in the hall, servants and noble alike, and quickly make their way through the side corridors until they eventually find a door that leads to the courtyard.

Once there, the two of them make their way to the labyrinth of tents.

They end up hiding out in Stannis' tent.

In the privacy of her brother's tent Ostara pulls her wand out, twirls it between her fingers, and finally flicks it at her empty hand.

Gentle light fills the space, a by product of the little blue flame that has appeared in the palm of her hand, hovering like a firefly. Ostara watches the flickering light for a long moment before turning her attention to Stannis. He looks fascinated.

"Will you tell him? The Prince, I mean." Stannis' voice is gentle.

"I'm sure I'll have to eventually."

"Are you afraid?"

"Of course I am."

The look Stannis gives her is oddly fierce.

"Don't be. If you tell him and he reacts poorly then you will always be safe at Storm's End... And if not there then perhaps the Summer Islands or Dorne, maybe even Asshai."

"Why Asshai?"

"Because if anyone can thrive in a place like that it would be you, Ostara." Stannis shakes his head. "You're _tenacious_."

"I think you meant stubborn, Stannis."

"Yes, that too."

Ostara stares at the flame in her palm, moving her hand this way and that so that the flame casts shadows upon the tent walls. Beyond the tent there is drunken laughter and men and women make their way back to the tents. Her parents are likely to have returned, her parents are also likely to be very, very annoyed with her. Ostara finds she can't really bring herself to care all that much.

But she still puts out the flame, still curls her fingers and clenches the flame between a tight fist, purple-grey smoke curling around her hand as she uses her own magic to extinguish the flames.

Darkness fills the tent which earns her an annoyed grunt from Stannis.

Ostara just smiles as she casts another notice-me-not and slips from Stannis' tent and back to her own.


	18. Chapter 18

"Denys Darklyn is refusing to pay his taxes," Steffon says one morning over breakfast. "He has even sent Tywin a petition for a charter."

Ostara swallows the food in her mouth. She has a recollection of Lord Darklyn but it is vague at best and not something she wishes to rely upon. If Stannis were here he would know, she could ask him about it later and he would tell her where she had met the Lord and when, unfortunately her brother has been off to squire for house Morrigen for several months now.

And Renly is far to young to be of any help so there's no point in asking him for his help.

"And why is that?" Cassana inquires, one eyebrow rising toward her hairline.

"Due to the growth of King's Landing trade in Duskendale has dwindled. I suspect he wishes to stop the decline of wealth." Steffon replies.

"He or his Myrish wife, no doubt."

Steffon casts his wife a look but does not go to reprimand her for the implications. There is no one in the room save the four of them and Ostara doubts any of the servants would stoop so low as to betray any of the Baratheons by spying on their private conversations.

"Tywin has denied Denys the charter."

It's quite for a moment as Cassana wipes drool from Renly's face. He's grown quite a bit, her brother, and has already begun speaking in garbled, broken sentences. Everyone is quite proud of the boy.

"I'm sure Lord Darklyn took that well."

"Hardly, he's already asked Aerys to travel to Duskendale to broker an agreement."

"Will he go?" Cassana's eyes are wide with something Ostara might call angry concern if she didn't know her mother so well.

"Perhaps... Things have been tense of late between Aerys and Tywin."

"Why is that?" Ostara inquires.

Both of her parents look at her, as if only just now remembering she'd been present during the entirety of their conversation. Eventually it is her father who turns and offers an explanation.

"Lady Joanna had her babe, an imp, and the birth was incredibly difficult for her. She's yet to fully recover and Aerys has made... Less then polite remarks about the situation as a whole."

"Oh."

Yes, oh.

 _Oh_ because Joanna and her babe survived the birthing bed and Ostara is happy for this, truly she is, but she also remembers hearing rumors about Aerys insulting Joanna's figure at the tourney in Lannisport all those months ago. That alone had been enough to make Tywin Lannister attempt to resign as Hand. What will happen now that his wife is so vulnerable and his babe is small and his ego is bruised?

"It has driven a wedge between Tywin and Aerys. I suspect my cousin will travel to Duskendale for no other reason then to spite Tywin."

"Tywin is taking this well I suspect." Cassana remarks dryly.

"As well as can be suspected." Is her father's deft reply.

Slowly, the family falls back to more familiar topics of conversation. Aerys and Duskendale pushed to the side but hardly forgotten in favor of discussing Stannis and Robert and a possibly betrothal between the Heir of Storm's End and Lyanna Stark, who Robert has never met personally but he continues to send ravens to their parents waxing poetics about his Lady of Winter.

Highly unoriginal but no one ever claimed him to be a poet.

And yet, Ostara would rather not receive another raven from her brother filled with nothing but declarations of love for a woman with skin like buttermilk and eyes like a dove's wing and hair like the inky, empty sky.

A woman he's never met but apparently loves with all of his being.

Robert Baratheon only knows of Lyanna Stark through her brother who has befriended Robert due to their mutual fostering in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn's watchful gaze. It's annoying but not surprising. Betrothals in which neither participant has met are all too common here, in this world where everything is based on politics, and Robert is too romantic for his own good.

Ostara thinks, and perhaps she is wrong, that her brother is more in love with the idea of Lyanna Stark then with the girl herself.

For Robert has always loved wild things... Even if he doesn't actively acknowledge the fact.

The twelve year old sighs, takes a final bite of her porridge, and asks to be excused. Her parents dismiss her with fond smiles, which are easily returned, before turning their attention back to there conversation. Something about crops and storms. As she exits her parents' solar Ostara finds herself wondering if Robert will be knowledgeable enough about the Stormlands to make a good High Lord.

She thinks so.

She hopes so.

She doesn't realize that this is the least of her concerns.

~X~

A raven arrives at Storm's End three weeks latter from none other then Tywin Lannister. It's delivered by a boy who looks after the ravens, he's visibly pale and his hands have half healed scabs. Ostara thinks they're from the ravens pecking at his exposed flesh or from their talons biting into his skin. Either way, it doesn't hinder him any.

He hands off the letter with a certain steadiness that Ostara finds interesting.

Steffon takes it with a nod, checks the seal, opens the letter, and begins reading. He rereads the letter once, then twice, then his skin goes unnaturally pale.

Suddenly, the storm raging beyond the walls of the keep seems much more ominous then it had moments ago. The patter of rain hitting the windows causes Ostara to stiffen and the crack of thunder that follows a bright flash of white light causes her to flinch.

She's never been scared of storms, living in a place like Storm's End doesn't exactly give you the luxury of all that, but she finds herself very afraid now.

"Father," Her voice is not as strong as she would have liked, "is something wrong?"

By now Cassana has turned her attention away from a squalling Renly and to her husband. When she notices the paleness of his skin, the distant horror in his eyes, she passes off the boy and reaches out to snatch the letter form his hand.

"Ostara," her father's voice is strained and her mother is wide eyed with horror, "return to your chambers."

"Father, I don't underst-"

" _Now_ , Ostara, do not make me tell you again."

It is the first time her father has used such a tone with her. Angry and tense with no room for disobedience. Without much of a struggle Ostara rises, eyes flicking between her parents, and nods once before exiting the room.

She waits until the door has shut and a servant passes before pulling our her wand and casting a disillusionment before creeping back to the door. She presses her wand into the door, muttering spells under her breath until Ostara manages to slip through the heavy wood. It's a nifty little trick but it leaves her feeling heavy. Like she'd jumped into a pool of water wearing heavy wool and fur.

"And what has Tywin told him?" Her mother demands, causing Ostara to startle.

Thankfully neither of her parents notice the ripple in the air, a result of her jerking back to press against the wall.

"What do you think Tywin told him? Denys Darklyn is a thrice damned fool." Her father growls, knuckles white from the grip he has on his chair.

Her mother pressed the knuckle of her index finger to her lip, eyes distant, and she turns her face toward the fire for a moment before turning back to the man sitting in the chair across from her.

"He is a dead man either way, no? If he releases Aerys then he will be executed for treason, if he does not then Tywin will find a way to kill him. Why would he do something as foolish as this?"

"Desperate men had done worse for less, Cass... You know this better then anyone."

"Yes but the last time anything like this happened I did not have children to worry about." Cassana snarls.

"They'll be alright, Cassana," Steffon tries to soothe, "no one will touch them."

"How can you be so sure? Robert is in the Eyrie, Stannis is in Crow's Nest, and gods forbid Ostara ever stays in Storm's End."

"What are talking about, Cassana? Ostara has never left the grounds."

Her mother's laugh is bitter.

"Do you think me a fool Steffon? Do you think I'm so blind to not realize that my daughter, my flesh and blood and bone, is not _entirely_ human." The words are hissed.

Her mother is angry. But at who?

Ostara, for not telling her mother the moment she realized she had magic?

Steffon, for knowing and not saying a word to her when they'd made promises to not keep secrets?

"When?" Her father asks, voice resigned.

"I had my suspicions when she claimed that beast of hers came from the Godswood." Her mother runs a hand over her face. "Do you remember the man who hurt Cerys? When you questioned him, he didn't lie. He didn't even try. He just kept talking and talking. I remember how he looked at Ostara after you sentenced him, like he was afraid of her, but why would he be afraid of a child?" a shaky inhale, "And then you killed him."

"He was a threat."

"Yes, I know, and I don't fault you for doing it."

"Then why mention it?"

"Because I know my daughter, Steffon. I _know_ you. You wouldn't have assassinated him for no reason. So I started paying more attention, I started noticing when she'd sneak off or how she'd mutter under her breath and stare at something no one else could see or how she always carries around that damned stick of hers."

"That doesn't prove much, Cassana." Steffon whispers.

Her mother closes her eyes for a brief moment and when they open again there is a fire in them.

"I caught her performing her magic, Steffon. That night at Lannisport. I went looking for her after she and Stannis slipped off. I assumed they'd gone back to the tents so I went there first, checked Ostara's tent and found it empty so I went to Stannis' and I... She was playing with _fire_ , Steffon. Holding it in her palm like it was something docile."

Ostara wants to curse, wants to scream, wants to cure her own stupidity. The wards she'd erected around the Baratheon tents had been designed to repel strangers and those outside her immediate family, sans Daevyn Sand who Ostara trusted with her life. It hadn't even occurred to her that she might need to put up wards against her own parents.

Why would it?

The worst part is that she hadn't even noticed her mother's presence. Hadn't even been looking for it. She'd been so caught up in her own worried, her own frustrations, and the conversation with Stannis that she hadn't even...

"Have I been so terrible a mother that you would not entrust me with a secret such as this?" Her mother asks, voice soft.

Guilt wells in her stomach.

 _Here I am_ , she thinks, _worrying about my lack of vigilance when my own mother thinks I don't trust her_.

Which is utter rot because Cassana Baratheon is one of the most trustworthy people Ostara knows. But why wouldn't she feel this way? It isn't like Ostara's been forthcoming with her secrets.

If she'd told her mother would it have changed things?

Would Cassana Baratheon have protested a betrothal to Rhaegar Targaryen? Would she have refused to let her anywhere near King's Landing? Would she have done anything differently or would things eventually play out the same either way?

Ostara reaches up to tug at the end of her braid.

"No, of course not." Her father practically growls.

"Then why? Why would no one tell me of this?"

"Because I told Ostara not to. I thought it was dangerous enough for her that I knew... If it's any consolation to you, I also told her not to tell Robert or Stannis."

Her mother smirks even though her eyes are sad, "Robert wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut about it. He'd have told someone eventually. Probably that Stark boy he's such good friends with."

There's no guilt when Robert is mentioned.

In itself, this should be enough to make Ostara feel guilty. It doesn't. Instead there's a dull sort of acceptance. Neither of them had been particularly close since Robert left to be fostered at the Eyrie. The occasional raven over the years hadn't done anything to strengthen sibling bonds. Sure, he'd send her gifts and tell her funny stories and threaten to cut Rhaegar's bollocks off if he ever hurt her but that's... That's just how Robert is.

That's just how he operates.

And this?

This is how Ostara operates.

"You need to tell her." Steffon says after a moment.

"I have a feeling she already knows."

If Cassana's eyes flicker in the direction Ostara's hiding the Lord of Storm's End doesn't notice. Or, perhaps he does. Perhaps he's also aware of Ostara's presence and is merely acting as if he isn't. Either way, Ostara presses her fingers against the stone behind her, feels it getting colder and colder as it slowly swallows her whole before spitting her out in the corridor beyond her parents' solar.

Despite her disorientation, despite the pain in her head, Ostara stumbles her way through the keep and too her room where Rubeus is sprawled out across her bed. With an exhausted yawn Ostara makes her way across the floor with only just enough time to fling herself onto the bed next to her familiar before she fell asleep. The last thing she comprehends is the warmth of Rubeus' body as he curls around hers.

~X~

"What is this?" Ostara demands, fingers curling around the spine of a worn leather book she'd been reading moments before.

 _You know what it is._

"Even I have fucking standards."

She's angry. Glaring and hissing at the being lingering in the corner of her room. He hasn't stopped watching her, Ostara hasn't stopped trying to decide whether she wants to chuck the book at His head or not.

Death moves closer, the hem of his cloak swirling across the floor like mist. He stops about halfway to her, right behind the large trunk he'd somehow managed to get into her room. She has to briefly remind herself that magic is infinite in its possibilities and that a being such as he would not be shackled to the limitations she is. Ostara watches as He leans down, bony finger tips dragging almost tenderly across the contents of the trunk.

Ostara has to look away.

 _This is madness_ , she thinks.

 _No_ , Death replies, _it is to be your legacy_.

Then he's gone, leaving behind the blasted, thrice damned trunk and a pile of books that Ostara overlooked in her shock over the trunk's contents. She's quick to sort through them, putting the books that interest her aside for later reading and returning the books He tried to sneak her to the trunk where they belong with the rest of His... Gift.

Ostara slams the lid shut before moving to sit before the trunk.

Protective wards are easily put up, a smear of blood from a cut on her thumb ensures no one but she will be able to open the trunk should the wards fail, and then Ostara drags the trunk toward her bed. She pauses a moment, scanning the room to make sure this is the best spot to hide the trunk, then she begins shoving the mass of gold and mahogany beneath her bed. It's a tight fit but when Ostara steps away she can barely notice it.

She thinks that anyone else would over look it.

Even if they do notice it it's not like they'll be able to get to it.

The trunk is too heavy and what magic Ostara dared to use on the trunk, and it's contents, will keep everyone else at bay.

"Legacy my arse." Ostara mutters as she turns to the pile of book on the floor.

She doesn't see the smear of blood on the top of the trunk moving and seeping into the wood. She doesn't see it drip, drip, drip onto the contents hidden within. She doesn't see the eggs shake and shake and finally go still.

Ostara doesn't realize that she's sealed her own fate.

And Death stands in the corner, unseen and silent, watching with a smile as the girl begins reading about ancient hexes and dark magics, unaware of the fact that she has bound herself to the dragon eggs tucked safely beneath her bed, or that she has bound them to her.

~X~

"Ostara, darling girl, come here."

Cassana Baratheon is smiling, hand extended, eyes warm. The two of them haven't spoken about what transpired all those weeks ago but Ostara knows that her mother bears her no ill will for the secrets she has kept.

A good thing perhaps.

Ostara has seen her mother's anger before. She would not like to be on the receiving end of it.

Whatever has caused her mother to summon her is not something that has caused her anger. Worry perhaps, maybe even a hint of fear, but not anger. This in turn makes every hair on the back of Ostara's neck stand on end.

"Yes, mother?"

"You look tired. Have you been sleeping well?" Her mother asks, fingers moving to glide over her cheek.

Yes, but that's not the issue.

The past few days have left Ostara feeling... Drained. Something akin to the magical exhaustion she'd suffered in the weeks after the battle that had taken place in the Department of Mysteries and later after the final battle. She'd used so much magic to keep herself alive, strained herself in ways her body wasn't meant to strain, hadn't taken care of herself as she should have.

It had exhausted her magic.

Unfortunately, there is no potion to help her this time. No matronly witch to fuss over her, no friends to worry at her bedside. Ostara is forced to tend to herself as best she can, as discreetly as she can. Going to bed a bit earlier, sleeping a bit later, eating heartier meals. Anything and everything to give herself a bit more energy.

It doesn't appear to be working as well as she would have liked.

The worst part is Ostara doesn't even know why she's so tired all of the time. Nothing in her schedule has changed much since that night He came to... _Oh_.

 _Oh_ because He wanted something and she'd refused. _Oh_ because Ostara should not be this tired all of the time. _Oh_ because Ostara thinks it has something to do with the trunk hidden under her bed.

"I'm just worried is all. I overheard some of the stable hands discussing the King's imprisonment in Duskendale." Ostara says after a long moment, it's not necessarily a lie but it's not necessarily true either.

Her mother shoots her a look, "You know I don't like you going out without telling someone."

"Mother, I am perfectly safe."

"Regardless, I want you to tell someone from now on. Do you understand?" Her mother's demand if accompanied with fierce eyes.

"Does this have anything to do with Duskendale?"

Brown eyes flash and narrow, her mother's face pinching as she thinks of a reply. Several long moments pass before Cassana Baratheon nods her head, a jerky little downward tilt of the chin that tells Ostara more about how her mother is feeling then the anger burning in her eyes.

"Yes... You're father and I worry that Denys Darklyn will send someone after you in order to make Tywin approve of the charter he has requested." Cassana admits after a moment.

"Lord Tywin would likely be more worried about the King then me." Ostara states.

"Oh darling girl, your father and Lord Tywin and very good friends. To a certain degree Tywin likely cares more for you then he cares for the King." Cassana breathes, fingers threading in the loose mass of Ostara's unbound hair.

Ostara understands.

She wouldn't be too keen on saving the man who insulted her significant other over and over and over again.

"I understand," Ostara ends up saying, head beginning to throb, "I will not leave without telling someone first."

Something softens her mother's eyes. Relief, probably.

"Thank you." She says it like Ostara has given her the world on a string.

After that her mother ends up dismissing her far sooner then Ostara would have suspected. It makes her wonder whether or not her mother was simply checking on her because she wanted to confirm something herself or if there was another reason Ostara doesn't know about. Either way, it doesn't matter. Because there's a trunk under her bed that Ostara needs to inspect and a primordial being with a complex to interrogate.

~X~

He is waiting for her when she enters her chambers.

He has dragged the trunk from beneath Ostara's bed and left it in the same place he left it before.

He seems entirely too smug for his own good.

 _Bloody wanker._

Ostara slams the door and bolts it. Magically sealing the door would be too much for her at the moment but silencing the room is easy enough. It leaves her with a throbbing head, sweat beading at her temples, but it is something she can do without exhausting herself too much. Once she's sure they have enough privacy for the following conversation Ostara stomps up to the hooded figure and shoves at his shoulders.

Mist meets her fingers instead of a solid body and Ostara's momentum sends her phasing through the body opposite of her to sprawl out across the floor beside the trunk.

"What were you thinking?" Ostara growls, vision blurring. "You could kill me."

 _Your body will adjust, fierce eyed mother._

"I am not their mother."

 _Oh but you are. You have already given your blood for them, your very essence. There is very little you must do now_.

"What have you done? Do you not realize how dangerous this is?" Ostara wants to scream and rage but her arms are trembling and being so close to the trunk, to the eggs hidden beneath, is making her head spin, spin, spin.

 _The dragons of this world are dying. Magic in this world is dying. You will be the spark that sets the flame. This I have decided._

"You are a prick." Ostara snarls.

Knuckles, cold and stiff, move to stroke the tender flesh of her cheek.

 _Perhaps_ , He agrees, _but the books were left for a reason and I would read them if I were you_.

Then he is gone and Ostara is left lying on the stones, staring up at the lock of the trunk. She isn't strong enough right now to open the trunk, she'll do it first thing in the morning if she can, but there's a voice in the back of her head telling Ostara that it won't do her any good to try and stop this.

What's done is done.

There's no going back now, no changing the past.

Dragons will roam these lands again one day if He has anything to do with it. Ostara just hopes that she can prevent that from happening as long as she is able.

~X~

Frustration is not something Ostara is readily used to feeling and yet it is a feeling she is quickly becoming used too over the past several weeks.

Ever since He left those dragon eggs in her chambers, ever since she'd so foolishly let herself be lead into that trap, her magic has become oddly temperamental. Working perfectly fine one moment and not working at all the next. It's because those bloody dragons are leeching off of her magic. Little parasites. Of course, it's not their fault.

Most clutches feed off their mother's magical essence. Because dragons were built to have magical reserves meant for nothing more then nurturing their young.

Ostara is not a dragon.

Ostara was not built to mother ten dragons.

Her magic was not meant to keep them alive through the duration of their time as shells.

Which is another thing!

Ostara's been reading, because reading is a wonderful thing and the books He left with her are very informative. From what the books say, old and rare as they may be, most dragon eggs don't hatch in the first year of being laid, nor the second, something about magical accumulation and maturation. Ostara suspects the egg Hagrid had gotten in Hermione's first year was at least four years old.

There's no way to be sure, of course, the book just says that the dragons need a certain amount of time to draw enough magic from its bearer to ensure it's survival.

Which means that while it might only take two or three years for a dragon egg to hatch, that's only with it's original bearer. And as Ostara is not the bearer of any of the eggs tucked safely in the trunk, she's also splitting her magic between ten growing beings as well as herself.

Ostara looks in the mirror, glowering at her reflection.

Pale flesh, glassy eyes, and a sharpness to the features that might be the beginning signs of undernourishment.

Food. She'll need more food, more rest, more everything that'll keep her body healthy enough to survive the next several years.

A frantic knock on the door makes Ostara jump. She sprints over to the side of the bed, slams the trunk lid shut, and shoves it beneath her bed just before her mother to come striding into the room.

Cassana Baratheon's eyes are frantic. Wide and wild and full of fire. When she catches sight of Ostara something shifts but there's still a fierceness there that makes the young witch nervous.

"Mother... Has something happened?" Ostara finds herself inquiring, voice oddly rough.

Long moments pass before her mother moves to kneel before her.

"Barristan Selmy has rescued the King." Is all her mother says.

Ostara does not understand why her mother's lip trembles so. Does not understand why she looks so scared.

"Is this not good news? Surely with the King safely returned all will be well again."

 _He might be an arrogant fuck_ , Ostara thinks, _and a racist to boot but he's not a terrible king. Poor at ruling, yes. But there have been worse._

Cassana's eyes fill with tears, they spill over her cheeks and cause the whites of her eyes to go a terrible milky red. With a shuddering breath she says, "It is not so simple as all that."

"What do you mean?"

"The King was... The King has been rescued and he will be returning to King's Landing as soon as judgement has been dealt. Lord Tywin sent us a raven. It would appear that the King has requested your presence in King's Landing." Cassana breathes.

Ostara presses her lips together.

While the idea of going to King's Landing doesn't seem all that appealing it isn't something she hasn't been preparing for. This isn't what makes her pause. Instead it is the way her mother says judgement.

"Mother, what kind of judgment has the King dealt?" Ostara demands.

"Ostara, this is not something I would share with you willingly."

"Mother."

A mighty sigh, oddly defeated, slips from between her mother's lips.

"He has sentenced the Lord Denys to death along with his immediate family, many of the servants are to be executed as well, all those who took part in his imprisonment really..."

"And..."

"And he has ordered Lady Serala's tongue and femanine parts torn out before he executed her."

Bile rises in Ostara's throat, settling over her tongue hot and thick. Her stomach continues to roll as she sucks in a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself before she says anything else.

"That's barbaric."

"Some believe it is a far kinder punishment then she deserved." Cassana replies.

"A woman was tortured."

Speaking from experience is easy enough. Ostara remembers what it felt like, bleeding and thrashing and screaming on the floor of Malfoy's sitting room. Almost of their own free will the muscles of her arms and legs begin to tremble, a phantom pain starting on the inner part of her left forearm.

 _Mudblood_.

Ostara blinks and shoves those memories away. They have no place here in the halls of Storm's End where she was laughed and played and nothing too terrible has ever happened to her. It is not fair for her to think of moments in Hermione's life that were so awful when she is in these hall and yet thinks of them she does. Because a woman was torture.

If anyone has anything to say about that it would be Ostara.

"Yes, darling girl, I know." Her mother smooths back her hair with trembling hands. "The King will expect you in King's Landing by the time he arrives. Rhaella is already preparing to receive you."

"I do not wish to go."

"Nor do I want you too but we cannot keep you here. We all knew it was only a matter of time, besides, I think you will enjoy your time with Rhaella. She is a kind woman and she adores you."

"What about you and father? Will I not see you again before I am married?"

Her mother laughs, "I have a feeling that visiting us will not be a problem for you."

She is referencing Ostara's magic, the girl is sure. If only she new that it wasn't so easy as simply using her magic to return. Not anymore at least. Ostara doesn't have to glare at where the trunk would be under her bed, she's sure the little unborn dragons within can feel her ire through the bond they share, and if not them then _He_ will certainly feel it.

Absently, Ostara glances around the room while her mother continues to talk about Maegor's Holdfast and the Kingsguard Knight she will be given and the lavishness of a royal life, a feeble attempt at comfort but Ostara isn't certain it's meant to reassure her. So she glances around the room and tries to decide what she will take with her. The dragon eggs are a must. Ostara cannot ensure their safety and her own health if they are so far away.

Leather bound books so old they'll need to be handled with the utmost care, jewels that she has acquired over the years, she'll have to bring her saddle, and Rubeus will likely need to wear some sort of collar the first few weeks so as to keep anyone who sees him roaming from becoming too distressed. She'll also need to figure out how she's going to keep herself sane in King's Landing.

There will be no gentle hearted Cerys, of this Ostara will make sure, to keep her company. There will be no stoic brothers to explore the keep with her. There will be no trips to the kitchen to speak with the cooks and eat sweet treats made specifically for her.

Perhaps her Ladies in Waiting will offer her some comfort. She will have them, eventually, and they will all by chosen by her instead of by another. There will be no one so closer to Ostara as those Ladies if they can be trusted.

"When do I leave?" Ostara inquires, her voice is raw but neither her mother nor Ostara herself mention it.

"You will be escorted to the Red Keep in two days time." Cassana says.

"I should pack then."

"Yes, I think it would be best if we gathered your things."

Neither of them move to do anything of the sort, instead they curl up at the foot of Ostara's bed and Cassana plays with her hair while Ostara takes comfort in her mother's presence. It is familiar, it is peaceful. Ostara thinks that this will be one of the very last times either of them feel such peacefulness again.


	19. Chapter 19

Rotting flesh has a very distinct smell, one Rhaegar has learned to ignore over the course of his life in the Red Keep where the dead in Flea Bottom are not cared for as they should be. The wind carries the stench of unwashed bodies and shit up to the Red Keep and the smell lingers, caught in every nook and crevice it manages to find its way into. Rotting flesh smells like feces and sweat and the cheap scented oils that the common folk will sometimes buy to cover their odor in place of actually bathing.

Rhaegar is used to rotting flesh, he is not used to the smell of _burning_ flesh.

A heavy, charred thing that makes Rhaegar gag and choke whenever he smells it in his doublet or on the clothing of another.

Serala Darklyn deserved the punishment she was given in the eyes of the common folk who came to watch her execution just the day before. They'd cheered as she was forced to walk through them, naked and bloody and sobbing. Cheered and cheered until their cries sounded more like roaring then anything else. Rhaegar had watched as they'd thrown stones and rotting food at her, watched as one man had pulled her into the crowd and beat her near senseless before Oswald Whent managed to pluch her from the clutches of the common folk and all but carry her to the raised platform where she would be put out of her misery.

The knight had looked green in the harsh light of the midday sun as he'd tied the woman to a post.

Rhaegar did not blame him.

As much as he understood his father's wrath and desperation Rhaegar did not agree with it. And oh he had tried to talk his father into a less severe punishment but Aerys had merely called him a child and sent him off. He had not listened, had not wanted to listen, and Rhaegar could not make him. So he had sat beside his father and watched as oil was poured over the woman's head, the amber colored liquid had gotten in her eyes and open wounds... He thinks that it will not be the sight of her flesh blistering that will forever haunt him but instead the sound of her agonized moaning as she burned.

Without a tongue she could not beg nor could she truly scream, so she'd choked on sobs and thrashed and tried to wail as the fire ate away her body.

He had hoped that would be the end of it. His father's wrath had been great and none but a small child had survived the massacre. But even with the days Aerys has spent resting and eating and being tended too there is a burning in his eyes that makes Rhaegar oddly nervous.

Thankfully their stay in Duskendale is at an end. A new family has been given the lands and the Dun Fort, their loyalty assured, and none of the common folk have attempted to cause them trouble, there is not reason to stay. They will leave for King's Landing on the morrow and Rhaegar is not sure how he feels about that. Relief, yes, for his father is alive and with time perhaps he will recover from the trauma he has suffered, but trepidation as well. Because all Rhaegar can think about is the glee that had lit his father's face as Serala Darklyn's body had been eaten away to little more then a pile of charred bones and ashes.

Perhaps returning to King's Landing will lift his father's spirits and soothe the tortures dealt to him. It will be familiar settings, after all, and his father has always found a sort of comfort in Maegor's Holdfast that Rhaegar never has. Dragonstone is Rhaegar's home, Dragonstone is Rhaegar's haven. King's Landing is the seat of his family's power and one day Rhaegar will settle in the Red Keep and spend the rest of his days there with his wife and whatever children she will bear him but that day has not yet come and so he thinks of Dragonstone and the peace there, and soon his mind drifts to his bride-to-be and her sharp, sharp eyes.

She will be waiting in King's Landing, or so Tywin has said. Rhaegar isn't sure how wise it is to bring her to the Red Keep while his father is in such a fragile state, his actions will be too unpredictable and while Rhaegar loves his father he is not so blind as to ignore the fact that he finds Ostara Baratheon fascinating in ways he should not.

More then one pretty woman has been taken to his father's bed while his mother's remains empty and cold. But Aerys' affections have always been fleeting things Rhaegar has never known his father to keep a mistress longer then a week. After Aerys has taken what they have to offer, sucked them dry and left them ruined, he dismisses them from the keep.

No bastard has ever come from his father's trysts with these women but it doesn't make it right.

Rhaegar thinks that he has a right to worry for the girl who will be his wife, even if just a little bit. She's young, after all, and pretty and men have done terrible, evil things for far less. A sort of dread settles in the pit of Rhaegar's stomach at the thought. Surely no one would dare to touch her, especially now when the King's anger is so quick to summon and so hard to soothe.

A frustrated sigh escapes his mouth as he enters the stables of the Dun Fort where a boy with freckles and a mess of brown hair has readied his horses and is now tending to Arthur's. Rhaegar watches him for a moment before gathering the reins of his horse's bridle so that he can guide the gelding out to the courtyard where servants are preparing everything that the Targaryen host will need for their return to King's Landing.

Tywin Lannister is standing in the middle of the chaos, talking to one of his soldiers. The gold thread in his doublet shines brightly, a spiderweb weaving in and out of the maroon fabric covering his arms. Even without his sword and armor Tywin looks more a King then a Lord. The Lion of Casterly Rock offers him a polite inclination of the head when he notices Rhaegar watching him then his attention is back on the soldier and Rhaegar has the distinct impression that he's just been dismissed.

He... Finds he is not offended.

Rhaegar is, however, startled when someone throws their arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer to their chest. A quick glance confirms Rhaegar's suspicions and Arthur's grin is far to cheeky for his own good.

"Excited to be going home? I hear the Lady Ostara will be waiting for us when we return." Arthur chortles, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Lady Ostara will be there to greet us when we return to the Red Keep, yes."

"Are you looking forward to it? Having her in the Keep? It will make fostering a relationship much easier when she's close enough to actually speak to." Arthur remarks.

For some reason Rhaegar finds himself bristling. "We've spoken plenty."

"All of those unsent letters you keep hidden in your trunk tells me differently."

"You've gone through my things? That's treason, Arthur."

"And yet you're not going to do anything about it." The sandy haired knight sighs, the glee in his eyes fading into something kinder. "I am not trying to embarrass you Rhaegar. I only think that speaking with Lady Ostara would be more beneficial then not."

"What makes you think we are not already on friendly terms?" Rhaegar finds himself asking.

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, eyes distant but not unkind, finally he shakes his head.

"May I be frank?"

"You always are."

"I think that while your feelings for the girl are honorable and you hold no ill will the same cannot be said for her. She is younger Rhaegar, she knows her duty but she does not know _you_." Arthur states.

"And you would know anything about marriages."

"I know women, Rhaegar, and Ostara Baratheon may be young but she is a woman still. Maybe it would be in your best interests to remember that a woman is perhaps one of the most dangerous creatures known by men."

Rhaegar resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead moving to toss his reigns over his horse's neck so that he can mount it. Once he's situated in the saddle, supple leather smooth against his legs, Rhaegar turns to Arthur.

"I will keep that in mind Arthur," Rhaegar smiles at his friend, "but perhaps it would be wise of you to remember that Ostara Baratheon is a child of noble blood and not one of the whores you sneak into your bed."

There is no anger in Arthur's voice, only amusement as he says, "I do not sneak them anywhere, Rhaegar. I have no reason to do so."

Rhaegar, unsurprisingly, does not deign his friend's statement with a response. It's no secret to anyone that Arthur takes women to his bed, not many, but enough. Pycell has often been seen bustling to and from his quarters with this elixir or that to ensure that the knight hasn't got a bastard on any of the pretty women he shares an evening or two with. He's very careful about his dalliances, Rhaegar will give him that much at least.

~X~

Her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast are lovely. Large windows and marble floors and vines carved into the walls. Golden light filters into the room during the day and she suspects that at night Ostara will be able to count each of the stars that burn bright beyond this world's atmosphere. Everything is perfect, simple in its function but stunning in its decor. Ostara allows herself a moment to stare at the servants place her belongings here and there about the room.

"Do you like it?" Rhaella asks, voice hopeful.

If Ostara was a betting woman she would say that it had been Rhaella who had chosen her new rooms.

"I think it's lovely, Your Grace, thank you." Ostara says it with a polite curtsy which seems to amuse the silver haired queen more then anything.

"I am glad you think so. Have you seen the view?"

Before Ostara can reply, even though they both know she has not been able to observe the view, Rhaella guides her over to the small balcony, throws the fluttering curtains back and steps out into the light. Ostara follows, moving as gracefully as her now incredibly awkward body can, standing beside Rhaella to stare out over the Blackwater Bay and the narrow sea. There's no comfortable way to observe the common folk living near the Red Keep and Ostara wonders if the silver queen standing beside her chose this room specifically with that purpose in mind.

All the same, it's a lovely view and Rubeus seems happy to bounce around the small space, knocking things about or moving them completely out of place. Ostara's just happy that the bed will be big enough to hide the chest of dragon eggs. She's going to have to figure something out, some way to secure not only the safety of those eggs but her own as well.

Because Ostara doesn't feel safe here in Maegor's Holdfast, it might be one of the most secure places in King's Landing but Ostara's pretty sure her enemies are not going to be trying to crawl through her window. She's pretty sure her biggest enemies will be the ones who clean her room and gather her dirty clothes at the end of the day. The maids and servants and young women who will claim their loyalty one moment and stab her in the spleen the next.

Ostara knows just enough about the game of thrones to know that one does not enter King's Landing blind to its nature.

"Is it not lovely?" Rhaella inquires, hands clasped before her.

"It is, your grace." Ostara doesn't bother trying to lie.

"I am glad you find it pleasing," Rhaella says, turning to look Ostara in the eye, "I'll leave you now, I think, there's much to do tomorrow and I think it'd best be done while you are fully rested."

"Thank you, your grace." Ostara curtsies.

Rhaella's smile is a soft, sweet thing and her hand is even sweeter upon Ostara's cheek as she says, "If you need anything at all Ser Grandison will be just outside your door. He may be aging but his skill have not dulled, you will be perfectly safe."

"Will there be anyone else? After Ser Grandison, I mean?"

"Yes, Lewyn Martell will come to relieve Ser Grandison of his duties at some point later this evening, though I suspect you will have gone to bed by that point."

 _Doubtful_ , Ostara thinks smiling to mask her tension, _very doubtful_.

"Then I will be sure to thank them personally tomorrow, your grace." Ostara remarks, stepping back into the room as Rhaella begins making her way to the door.

The golden thread in her bodice shines brightly in the light, fracturing the expanse of black that covers her slender frame. It is not a good color on her, black, it makes her appear faded. Washed out. Like she's a piece of colored parchment that's been left out in the sun too long. But Ostara does not say this, nor will she ever. Instead she allows the woman to place a chaste kiss upon her cheek before bidding her farewell.

Once she's gone and the door is closed tight Ostara makes her way around the room, fingers dragging across the smooth stone, it's harder to pull on her magic then it had been when she'd left Storm's End which is disconcerting but not surprising. It's bothersome all the same and she ends up breaking into a sweat about halfway through her task, panting and blinking rapidly to keep the world from spinning.

And still she continues putting up the strongest protection and repellent charms she can think of, something pulling in her chest the entire time, tighter and tighter until it snaps like a band being stretched too far. Ostara swallows, shakes her head, and sucks in a shaky breath as she sinks to her knees. Without meaning too her eyes land on the little chest resting at the foot of her bed, locked and safe enough in her presence that Ostara hadn't worried too much when the servants had moved it from the wheelhouse to her new chamber.

Something is wrong.

Ostara bites her lip, forces herself across the small space separating her from those eggs, and pushes the lid up.

The first thing that catches her attention is the mess of shattered dragon egg and embryonic sack at the far end of the line of dragon eggs, the unrecognizable shape of a barely developed dragon curled up among the shell fragments and hay. The second thing she notices is the blood. It covers inside of the lid like a velvet lining, shining and gathering like real blood would.

When Ostara reaches out to drag her fingers across the wood she brings them away coated in the thick red substance which begins sliding down her fingers to pool in the center of her palm of drip lazily onto the floor.

 _What the hell?_

 _Have you read the book, little warrior._

Ostara whips around to glare at the hooded figure hovering near the door.

"You did this, didn't you?" Ostara snarls, already rising.

 _Magic is needed to sustain a dragon, little warrior, and your blood has so much magic... So much potential._

"And obviously this," Ostara motions to the blood coating the lid, "was the best way to go about getting what you wanted."

 _He_ merely chuckles, the sound of dead leaves scraping across pavement slipping from beneath _his_ hood, and reaches out as if to stroke Ostara's cheek. But he does not touch her, instead _he_ stands still and silent as a little deformed creature slips from beneath the sleeve of his robe and drags itself across a bony hand.

"What is that?" Ostara asks, she's pretty sure she knows the answer already.

 _Read the book_ , is all he says before he fades away.

Ostara stands there for a long moment before vanishing the blood from her hands and the floor, using her magic is a bit easier now and Ostara thinks that's because there's one less dragon sucking her magic out of her body. But no matter how hard she tries the blood doesn't vanish from the inside of the lid and Ostara is forced to shove the trunk under her bed with the knowledge that there's no getting out this situation that _he's_ put her in.

And falling back into old habits is all too easy when Ostara snatches up the book _he_ left for her and goes to curl up with Rubeus on the balcony to read.

~X~

"It's been three days." Rhaegar says to Barristan Selmy one evening and the other man's eyes grow distant and hard.

"Aye, your highness, it has."

"Has anyone called for a maester?"

"Aye, multiple times and your father turns them all away." Barristan rubs at his chin, "Though, one was able to observe the king for a short time."

Rhaegar wants to pull at his hair, or rub a knuckle against his eye, or pinch the bridge of his nose in his frustration. It's been three days since they left Duskendale and in that time his father has shown very little improvement. He is quick to anger, hard to please, and his eyes dart about suspiciously whenever he is around too many people.

"What did the Maester say?" Rhaegar demands.

"That it is not uncommon for those who have suffered under torture to be suspicious of others for a time after the ordeal. He said it would likely pass with time and familiar settings."

"And that is all?"

"That is all, your highness."

"Thank you, Ser Selmy."

The knight offers a curt nod and a polite goodbye before leaving to see to whatever tasks he'd been off to accomplish before Rhaegar had stopped him. Rhaegar doesn't understand the uncharacteristic clenching in his gut, doesn't understand why he feels so unsure about the Maester's prognosis. It's not as though Rhaegar knows anything about healing, nothing that could ever help his father anyway.

Healing the mind is so much different then healing the body.

A body can be fixed with stitches and splints and bandages and herbs.

The mind is not so easy to fix.

So why would Rhaegar feel so apprehensive about his father's sickness? His father's trauma? Surely he will recover in time, surely the maester's have been able to examine him enough to be sure of their diagnosis.

Rhaegar presses his lips together instead of grinding his teeth at the thought of the Maester's being wrong.

Because if they are wrong and Rhaegar allows his father back into king's landing where his mother and brother are, where his wife-to-be is, then Rhaegar will be no better then a monster. Even before this Aerys treatment of his wife had never been loving, he'd never hurt her badly but Rhaegar suspects his mother would never tell anyone that his father did strike her.

Something acidic rests in Rhaegar's throat as he leans back in the small chair set up in his tent.

If his father's torment at Duskendale has truly rendered him mad then Rhaegar will have no choice but to handle the situation. But how to do so when the state of his father's mind is so unclear? Rhaegar bites the inside of his cheek, he'll speak with his mother... And Arthur. Surely they will be able to guide him in his decisions if nothing else.


	20. Chapter 20

"Lift your arms please, Lady Ostara." One of the seamstresses says, eyes pinned to the floor.

Ostara does as the woman says, raising her arms so they hover in the air, and the moment they're out of the woman's way she resumes her measuring while the other woman she works with discusses fabric and pattern choices with the Queen. Personally, Ostara thinks the new wardrobe she's being presented with is a waste of time and money as she's sure to grow out of the gowns in one way or another.

But the Lannister host will be returning in a few short days with the king and _apparently_ none of the gowns in Ostara's trunks had been deemed suitable, thought the Dornish gown she's yet to find an occasion to wear certainly caught the queen's attention.

At least it's keeping her distracted. Otherwise she'd be discussing ladies-in-waiting and balls and doing needlepoint surrounded by simpering women who grovel at the Queen's feet while simultaneously spitting at Ostara's.

Off on the other side of the room Rubeus sneezes, causing the woman kneeling beside Ostara to jump and sputter her apologies.

"I think," Rhaella says after Rubeus has settles back into the patch of sunlight he'd chosen to lay in, "that Lady Ostara should chose her own fabrics. Come Lady Ostara, Tildy will not bite."

The woman knealing on the ground moves away to allow Ostara to view the arrangement of fabrics. And what an arrangement it is. Green velvet, purple lace, gold satin, blue silk. Ostara looks over each bolt of fabric, putting aside a few to look at again while skipping others completely. By the time Ostara has looked at each bolt she has at least twelve choices set aside, so she turns her attention to them.

She makes sure to chose a bolt of scarlet silk, knowing it would be rude if she did not, but after that she chooses black velvet and yellow velvet and a satin that has been colored an off bronze. Rhaella insists she has ebony silk as well, and a deep purple linen for a nightgown or under-dress. Ostara humors the silver haired woman until she turns to the two seamstresses and ask that they also make Ostara a pair of riding breeches and a set of simple tunics.

When the two seamstresses give her a look Rhaella laughs and says, "My son enjoys the occasional ride after all. What would she do if he ever invited her along? Ride with her skirts above her knees?"

"Of course not, Your Grace." The dark eyed Tildy replies, smiling.

"We'll ensure she has something suitable to greet the prince in," the other woman says, "but the rest will take time."

"She has other dresses."

"Of course, Your Grace."

With that the two women begin gathering their things and once they're gone Rhaella turns to Ostara, "I do hope you don't mind that I've done this."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"It's just that, well, I've never been able to dote on Rhaegar in such a way since before he left to squire and it would hardly be appropriate for me to dress my husband."

A pretty sort of powder pink spreads across Rhaella's cheeks and Ostara wishes she could blush like that instead of the angry red that tends to turn her cheeks blotchy.

"I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace."

"Rhaella, please."

"If you insist upon it."

"I do. You're to be my good-daughter one day... I'd like there to be no discomforts between us." Rhaella insists, reaching out to take Ostara's hands in her own.

Something warm curls in the young witch's stomach.

"Rhaella then." She says at last.

"Excellent." Rhaella steps a bit closer, "Now, there's the matter of companionship to discuss and we'll have to give you a tour of the Keep. There are other things to do today, of course, but I believe those can be done later."

Ostara watches as the queen makes her way over to Ostara's trunk to pull out a gown of blue satin and Myrish lace which she promptly lays across the bed. Having not had time to change out of her shift before the seamstresses came for her fitting Ostara understands why Rhaella is sorting through her trunks. She just isn't sure why the Queen of all people is going out of her way to do the same task Ostara could do herself.

Either way, she doesn't comment on it.

Instead the girl slips into her clothes with practiced ease and gathers her hair into something of a braid before weaving a simple black ribbon around the end to hold everything in place. Once she's decent Rhaella takes her arm and guides her out into the corridor.

"Now," Rhaella says once they've started their journey, "as you will be Princess one day, and Queen after that, it is good to have those you can consider trustworthy at your side which why I have sent a raven to Dyanna Manwoody of Dorne to be your Lady-in-Waiting. I have also offered a position as companion to Alerie Hightower, she's a few years older then yourself but a sweet girl from what I've heard, and even Alysanne Tarth."

Ostara has met Alysanne Tarth but once, at a tourney her father held. She'd been a small thing with large eyes and sunshine yellow hair and skin so pale the blue of her veins stood out quite noticeably. Alysanne Tarth had not been a child many suspected to make it to a marriageable age. Many thought she would die in the cradle like her elder sister Arrianne.

Sickly and frail though she may appear Ostara knows for a fact Alysanne Tarth is anything but. The fact that she is loyal to the Baratheons is only an added bonus.

So it is with very little annoyance, none at all really, that Ostara nods her head and allows Rhaella to guide her down yet another corridor which leads further into the keep.

"When will they arrive?" Ostara inquires.

"Lady Dyanna will arrive in three days time, Lady Alerie only a day or so after, Lady Alysanne has sent a raven only yesterday and is preparing to leave as we speak." Rhaella replies.

"I look forward to meeting my new Ladies." Ostara finds herself saying even though the words sound odd in her mouth.

She never had a Lady-in-Waiting while at Storm's End. Yes, she had Cerys who acted as something of a Lady-in-Waiting but it was different. Cerys and Ostara knew each other for years, their friendship had been built out of trust and mutual love. Cerys would have never betrayed her trust had she been born a noble lady and chosen to serve as the future princess. Will it be the same with these girls?

Alysanne Tarth is not a concern, her loyalty and her kindness makes her trustworthy enough in Ostara's eyes that she is not uncomfortable with the idea of having the slightly younger girl. It is the other two girls, Dyanna Manwoody and Alerie Hightower that make Ostara nervous.

Will they betray her? Will they be loyal to her? Have they been chosen by the Queen or another royal to act as spy? With as dangerous as King's Landing is Ostara wouldn't doubt it... Though, why these women specifically? There are other noble families much more loyal to the Targaryens. Perhaps it is to do with the influence and prestige that comes with their family names and titles.

The Hightowers are one of the most powerful houses in the Reach with more trade vessels and overseas relations then any other house in Westeros, and the Manwoodys guard the passage to Dorne through Kingsgrave with a sort of fierceness Ostara finds herself begrudgingly respectful of. Which only leaves Alysanne Tarth. Her house is known to have blood ties with Ostara's own and they control the Straits of Tarth. Ostara suspects that the reason she was chosen over anyone else is because her family is so very loyal to the Baratheon house.

She remembers what her mother said before she'd stepped into the wheelhouse that would take her to King's Landing. To beware the politics of court, to be aware that not everyone will be her friend, to be aware that even those closest to you can hurt you. Ostara doesn't actually need her warnings. She used to read stories, when she was still Hermione Granger, of royal courts and intrigue. Most of them were fictional books meant to capture the attention of those who do not like to read but Ostara finds there is truth in those stories. And King's Landing has a violent history.

"And this is the Great Hall." Rhaella says as she steps through a set of doors.

Ostara follows, eyeing the splendor of the room and vaguely recognizing it as the same hall she took her meals in the very first time she'd visited King's Landing.

"We will dine here on formal occasions but more oft then not you will brought food to your solar or the gardens if that is where you wish to eat. Personally, I find dining in the gardens rather lovely."

"May we see them? The garden? I've not seen them since my last visit but I remember thinking them wonderful."

"Of course, I will show you the gardens just as soon as I take you to the iron throne."

~X~

The iron throne is just as Ostara remembers it. Too big, too dark, too imposing. There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about the mass of melted steel nor is there anything that would put her at ease if Ostara were a peasant coming seek audience with the King. The entire throne room is this way. But there are things that Ostara finds lovely.

Like the dragon skulls lining the walls are amazing to behold.

Ostara thinks of the dragon eggs in her room, of the Ukranian Ironbelly Hermione Granger used to escape Gringotts, of the dragons Charlie loved so much. They aren't the same, of course, but Ostara likes to think that the Targaryen dragons wouldn't have been so terribly different. The amusement of the thought sours when she thinks of the little dragon's cold body, the body she'd unknowingly killed, the body she'd had to burn in the fireplace to ensure no one would know about it. Thankfully the fetus hadn't been old enough to form the protective scales that would have prevented it from burning in her fireplace.

"This is where you will one day sit," Rhaella says, moving to stand beside a cushioned bench settles not too far from the throne to be dismiss-able but not close enough to be considered overly important. Her future husband's guards will be placed closer to the throne then Ostara. "It's far more comfortable then it looks."

Ostara bows her head, "Thank you for your concern, Your Highness, but I doubt I will find any discomfort."

Her words are soft, polite things that do not match the rage she feels boiling in her gut.

A marriage is not supposed to be a power struggle. One partner should not be put above the other. One partner should not rule over the other. Marriages are supposed to be about trust and loyalty and love, like the marriage her parents have. But this? This is not what Ostara wants. She does not want to be put aside and forgotten and overlooked because her husband is to be King.

She is just as powerful, more so if one considers her magic, as her husband-to-be and Ostara refuses to be underestimated because she is a woman.

 _Fuck that_ , she thinks viciously, _I'll not allow anyone to underestimate me in such a way_.

"Marvelous, isn't it? Build of over a thousand conquered swords." A voice says from somewhere behind them, causing Ostara to jump near our of her skin.

The man she sees when she eventually whips around is a balding man with pale skin and a powdered face who smells faintly of something floral. He stares at Ostara almost knowingly before smiling and turning to the Queen.

She smiles, "Lord Varys, might I introduce you to Lady Ostara Baratheon."

Ostara curtsies, "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine, my dear. I have heard so much from my little birds." Varys says it so causally that Ostara has no doubt that he's heard quite a bit.

But what? What has he heard? And why does he stare at her as he does? What will he do with whatever information he's managed to gather for surely he knows something terribly dangerous. Being Master of Whispers does not allow him to take notice of anything unimportant.

"Lord Varys, always a pleasure." The Queen greets, eyes warm.

"The pleasure is always mine, My Queen, thought I must admit this is not meant to be a social visit." Vary says, stepping a bit closer so that the stench of his perfume clings to the back of Ostara's throat.

"Oh? Perhaps we should discuss it after I have finished showing Lady Ostara the keep?" Rhaella suggests, hands drifting to rest on Ostara's shoulders.

Varys bows his head, "That would be best, I should think. Call upon me whenever you've finished, My Queen."

And then he's striding away, the sound of the richly colored fabric of his robes dragging across the ground the only sound he makes as he slips through a side door and disappears from view completely. Ostara stares after him for a long moment, unsure of whether or not she trusts the man but unwilling to judge him too quickly. Rhaella seems to like him well enough and Ostara has grown to trust the woman... At least a little bit.

Thankfully the Queen doesn't seem to upset about the man's ominous visit. Instead she reaches out to lace her arm through Ostara's and guides her from the room. Ostara chances one last peak at the garish throne of swords before it disappears from view. Without much thought Ostara reaches out with her free hand to thread her fingers through Rubeus' fur, taking comfort in the feel of the shadow cat's muscles beneath his skin and the heat his body offers her.

She doesn't release him until Rhaella has guided her back to her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast and left her with a member of the Kingsguard named Jonothor Darry to watch her door. Ostara thanks him before hiding herself away in her bedroom where she can read her spell books and contemplate the best ways to defend herself from spies and intruders without drawing any unwanted attention.

~X~

"Do you require anything else, My Lady?" The serving girl asks, eyes downcast and face pale.

Ostara wonders if she's ever served a noble woman before, and if she has then how terrible was her last mistress? But there's not much she can do but smile and assure the young girl that she's perfectly fine and doesn't need anything else from her servant. It takes a bit more convincing then that but eventually the girl slips from the room and Ostara can bolt the door behind her.

Once she's alone Ostara makes her way to the foot of her bed where she kneels next to one of the chests waiting there. Under the heavy folds of dresses and tunics rests the book _He_ left for her. Ostara takes it with a muttered curse and makes her way to her bed where she curls up among the pillows. Rubeus crawls closer to her when she's settled, resting his head across her legs.

The first few pages are nothing overly important. A few messily written notes about dragons in the author's chicken scrawl about his time observing the dragons and the men he lost along the way. Ostara skims over it before turning to the next few pages. She reads about different breeds, some extinct in Hermione's world and some she knows, and their hoards and how they form clans of a sort.

it's fascinating really and Ostara actually finds the reading fascinating. Especially when reading about the dragons that had died off long before Hermione's ancestors were even a concept in the grand scheme of the universe.

But then she gets to the part on dragon eggs and everything takes a complete one-eighty degree turn.

Because Ostara's basically fucked herself seven ways to Sunday. There's no getting out of it now. Not really, because the author of the book was an observant bastard and nearly all of what he calls the _requirements_ for hatching a dragon have been met.

Each of the eggs have been introduced to a source of magic, each of the eggs have latched onto that magic, Ostara has pretty much claimed them by putting them under her protection which makes absolutely zero sense because the dragons haven't hatched yet and the dead one that Ostara had had to get rid of hadn't even been close to halfway developed. But apparently that doesn't matter because magic.

Because of course fucking magic.

By the time Ostara's read through the chapter on dragon eggs she's ready to pull out her hair strand by strand until she's got nothing left to pull out. The next chapter she reads is on proper care and treatment of dragons, the chapter after that covers bonding between dragons and basic family dynamics, the chapter after that is the theory of flying. Ostara skims that chapter and tucks away the information that might actually mean something to her later on. Because frankly, Ostara can just go to the Targaryen library and find something not so theoretical.

All-in-all the book is interesting enough and when Ostara finishes it, because it wasn't a very thick book to begin with, she returns it to its hiding place in her trunk and grabs a book on magics. It's more a journal then a book, filled with personal notes and drawings. It's fascinating and riveting and almost too good to be true. She holds the book reverently, with a sort of gentleness that suggests the soft leather and yellowing pages are something Holy.

Hours pass before Ostara shuts the book and puts it away, almost too tired to make it to the trunk to tuck her book away before returning to bed where she curls around Rubeus. The shadow cat huffs but allows Ostara to fling an arm around him and pull him closer so that she can curl her head beneath his chin. He smells like the soap Ostara uses to bathe him in. It's a comforting smell, reminds her a bit of home. And so it is with a soft upward curl of the mouth that Ostara falls asleep.

~X~

There are children in her dreams. Little purple eyed darlings with golden scales and pearly smiles. They squeal delightedly when they see her, little arms reaching out to take hold of her arms and her skirts. Something tightens in her chest when she gazes upon their sweet faces, so full of trust and love and joy.

 _Mother_ , they cry so sweetly though their little mouths don't move, _why do you cry, mother?_

The littlest one, a girl with a smile full of fangs, reaches up to wipe the wetness from Ostara's cheeks with a single golden talon. It gleams silver upon the talon she used to wipe it away. Ostara watches as the little girl brings the talon up to run it along the scales covering the face of the child beside her and the streak of wetness appears opalescent upon his scales.

It reminds her of something out of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.

"How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail, and pour waters of the Nile on every golden scale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly he spreads his claws, and welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws." Ostara finds herself whispers.

The children's laughter sounds like thunderclaps and falling mountains, fierce and dangerous and full of wildness. Ostara cannot find it in herself to care. Instead she kneels before the little ones and gather them closer, smiling into golden necks as their little talons thread through her hair and curl around the back of her neck. She isn't aware of the presence behind her until hands drop to wrap around her hips.

"This is our legacy." A man whispers, voice soft as a summer wind, "The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of dragons and magic."

 _Fire and blood,_ Ostara thinks fiercely as the world around her quakes.


	21. Chapter 21

The day Rhaegar Targaryen and the host of soldiers Tywin Lannister had taken to Duskendale are to arrive Ostara finds the castle bustling with more activity then she's frankly used too. Especially in her private chambers. Maids had come early that morning with breakfast and while Ostara had eaten, sneaking bits of meat under the table to Rubeus who lay quietly at her feet, the young women who would be her maids for the remainder of her time at King's Landing had brought a tub and had begun filling it with buckets of sweetly scented water.

Oranges and cloves. That's what the water smells like. Ostara realizes it as one of the girls takes her night gown from her and helps her into the tub.

None of her maids really speak to her, only answering whatever question Ostara might have but never going farther then that. Because it's improper and it could get them into a great deal of trouble if they were caught conversing with the future princess and queen. By the time they've washed her hair, scrubbed her skin near raw, and have seen to her nails, Ostara is debating whether or not she'll be able to perform a powerful enough confundus on the lot of them.

Thankfully the maids step away and allow her to exit the bath without her assistance, their attention primarily on removing the tub and preparing oils and other such items. Ostara takes their distraction as an opportunity to dry herself off and wrap the linen cloth around herself to create a semblance of privacy.

And when one of the girls, a pretty red haired thing with wide grey eyes, asks her to step up onto a small stool so that she can rub sweet smelling oil into Ostara's skin the young witch does so with a tight smile.

That's how Rhaella Targaryen finds her, standing on a stool with a young maid rubbing the golden-hued liquid into the skin of her shoulders and back.

"Good morning, Lady Ostara." Rhaella greets as she enters the room.

"Your Grace."

"I'm sorry if any of the maids startled you, dear."

"Oh, of course not, Your Grace."

Rhaella's smile is a sweet timid thing as she says, "I thought that perhaps I might be of assistance in helping you chose your dress."

Ostara pauses for a brief moment to think it over before nodding slowly. "I would very much appreciate your help, Your Grace."

Really, she just thinks that the Queen is lonely. She's got a babe, yes, but Ostara doesn't think she has many friends in King's Landing. Ostara also thinks that Rhaella is so eager do help her choose her dress because she doesn't have a daughter to do such things for. Cassana had often helped Ostara chose her dresses and jewels for special occasions, sometimes even when there were not special occasions to prepare for.

So who is she to deny this woman such an experience if she wants it so badly as to practically charge into Ostara's chambers and ask such a question in front of several women who, frankly, aren't quite as trustworthy as they might want Ostara or Rhaella to think. Ostara can admit that it had been a blatant attempt at manipulation, but Ostara can also admit that she would have said yes even if it hadn't been.

"Excellent," Rhaella's smile is too bright, too wide, as she makes her way to one of Ostara's chests. "May I?"

"Of course."

Ostara watches as the older woman open her trunk and begins carefully sorting through the contents before her attention is pulled back to the maid who's finished with the oil and is now holding out a pair of small clothes for Ostara to change into.

The next few moments are hell.

After she's gotten into the small clothes a chemise is given to her, a thin strapped thing with a skirt that ends at her ankles, after that her maid helps her slip a heavier dress over her head and a detachable bodice after that. Once the laces on the back of the bodice have been cinched tight one of the maids kneels down by Ostara's feet to help her into a pair of stockings and a pair of black slippers.

When they ask her to step off of the stool Ostara has to make sure she's gathered every layer of skirts possible so that she doesn't trip on the step down. She takes a moment to regain her footing before dismissing the maids. They leave with downcast eyes and not a word. It's strange. Hermione Granger might have even called it creepy.

The moment the door closes behind the last girl Ostara makes her way over to the mirror hanging from the wall and observes herself.

Rhaella had chosen one of her newer dresses. A two piece number that Cassana had had made as a parting gift. She's glad the Queen hadn't chosen the one sent from Dorne as Ostara's not sure she would have wanted to meet the Prince and King in such a dress... Especially when it might cast her in a bad light.

This dress, however, is perfect.

The fist part of the dress consists of a black dress with a heavier skirt of golden silk attached to form a sort of under skirt out of the thinner black dress while leaving the long sleeves and plain bodice exposed, the second half is a thin strapped bodice made of the same golden material with black flowers embroidered upon it.

"I thought it would be more appropriate if you wore your house colors today." Rhaella explains.

"It's very fitting," Ostara says as she turns to face the older woman. "Thank you."

"Of course." Rhaella smiles from where she's perched on Ostara's bed.

Too close to the chest full of dragon eggs, too close to the books of spells and potions, and oh fuck. Oh fuck because Ostara needs to find a better hiding spot for her books and trinkets. Even with Rubeus spread out on the floor closest to the chest Ostara doesn't like that there's a chance Rhaella could stumble upon the dragons. And she wouldn't come across them by kneeling down and looking under Ostara's bed.

As humorous as the thought may be.

Rhaella Targaryen has the blood of Old Valyria in her veins, her ancestors used to ride dragons, used to command them. Is it possible that she would be able to sense them? To know that there is something mystical and ancient feeding off of Ostara's magic? Ostara can tell they're there. She can feel each little beat of their hearts, a steady _press, release, press, press, press_ against her own magic.

Does that mean Rhaella can sense them? Feel them the way Ostara can?

Inbreeding has a number of terrible side effects. Reduced fertility, higher infant mortality rates, loss of immune system function, and a series of other incredibly horrific genetic diseases. It's one of the reasons the Purebloods in Hermione's world that didn't marry anyone with what they termed _inferior blood_ had had such a hard time producing healthy magical children.

While Ostara would never, ever wish for anyone to experience the death of a child or the inability to have one there's a small part of her that hopes that due to all of the inbreeding the Targaryens have lost some of their so called natural ability to sense and communicate with their dragons.

 _Not that the dragons are theirs to begin with_ , Ostara thinks possessively as her gaze flits toward the bed.

Ostara grits her teeth as she moves to find the appropriate jewelry for today's activities. Choosing a simple golden ring with her family's crest etched into it. The ring sits heavily upon her forefinger, glinting brightly in whatever light it manages to catch. Ostara might admit, to herself only, to having enchanted the ring when she'd first gotten it. A test to see just how much magic she could pour into it without anyone noticing.

She managed to place quite a few enchantments on it before anyone mentioned something strange about the ring. Ostara claimed that she took exceptional care of it and polished it at least twice a day. A lie, yes, but one that stuck.

"When is the King to arrive?" Ostara asks, causing Rhaella to look away from Rubeus.

"Scouts have reported that the King's host is but two hours from the city."

"They're making good time."

"Yes," Rhaella replies. "There will be a feast to honor my husband's return of course."

Which Ostara thinks is a terrible idea but has no room to say otherwise.

"Now, come along, there's much to see done and your opinion would be appreciated." Rhaella smiles widely then and says, "And I would very much like to introduce you to Viserys."

Ostara freezes, eyes wide as she turns to look at the older woman. "I beg your pardon?"

"Viserys. He's just over a year now." Rhaella says excitedly, and Ostara thinks she has every right to be as excited as she is.

Especially when this baby in particular has survived far longer than most of his siblings. A terribly thing, truly. Ostara is glad that Rhaella's baby survived, even if he runs the risk of having a number of health issues.

 _Every time a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin_.

She'd heard that muttered among the people at Lannisport. No one had every dared say such thinks in Ostara's home, in Lord Steffon Baratheon's home, because his mother had been a Targaryen. Princess Rhaelle had married Ostara's grandfather Ormund after the Targaryen woman's brother had broken his betrothal to the Storm Lord's daughter.

Targaryen blood, no matter how diluted, had run in Baratheon veins since Orys Baratheon, the bastard half brother of Aegon the Conqueror, had married Argella Durrandon. And no one with half a brain would ever say a word about Targaryen madness in Steffon Baratheon's home or anywhere else he might overhear. This doesn't mean people can't say things when they think no one is listening.

Whether or not Viserys goes mad Ostara can't know. And there's only so much she can do with her magic.

Ostara smiles at the silvery queen perched on her bed.

"I could be very honored to meet the little prince." Ostara says after a moment which ears her a pleased look from Rhaella.

"Then we mustn't keep him waiting." Rhaella says, already off of the bed and making her way to the door.

"Rubeus, to me."

The shadowcat huffs, rises, and pads over to Ostara where he rubs the length of his body against her leg before slipping out into the hall. Ostara closes the door to her chambers, lingering a moment to ensure her wards are up and working before turning to follow Rhaella Targaryen to the royal nursery.

~X~

Viserys is a bright eyed little boy with pale skin and silver-gold hair curling softly around his little ears. He gurgles happily when he sees Rhaella, wiggling fiercely and reaching for his mother despite the nurse maid's firm hold. Rhaella takes him, dismisses the woman, and places sweet kisses onto the boy's round cheeks.

While his mother peppers his face with kissed Ostara allows herself to look around the nursery. It's very pretty. Golds and creams with murals of dragons painted along the wall. Ostara thinks that the windows might be a bit low but there's no way for a small babe to accidentally climb out before he or she is too old to even be staying in the nursery.

"Viserys, love, you have a guest." Rhaella coos as she turns little Viserys to face Ostara.

There is a moment where they stare at one another before the little boy presses back against Rhaella, eyes wide and perhaps a bit scared. Ostara offers the boy a smile but refuses to discomfort him by reaching out to stroke his silvery hair.

"This is Lady Ostara Baratheon, she is to be your brother's wife." Rhaella tells Viserys.

He won't understand, everything Hermione had ever read about babies and developmental markers and psychology tells Ostara he won't understand. But speaking to him wouldn't hurt him any. It would actually help him a great deal.

"He is very sweet." Ostara offers, as it's the only remark she can make about the boy without sounding like she's insulting him.

Rhaella beams, "Yes. I do hope he grows to be like his brother... Rhaegar is very sweet as well, quiet but a sweet boy."

Ostara isn't going to comment on the fact that Rhaella has just attempted to endear her son to Ostara, or at least endear the idea of him. instead Ostara smiles and remarks rather boldly, "Perhaps with the right influences he will."

"Come, we simply must see to it that everything is prepared." Rhaella claims, moving her babe so that she can hold him more securely as she makes her way out of the nursery.

Rubeus trots behind, blue eyes trained on the little boy in the Queen's arms. He makes a noise, something between a purr and a delighted rumble and lopes back to Ostara's side. He misses Renly, sweet Renly who used to clamber up to lay on Rubeus' side whenever the shadowcat dared to stretch out across the ground, who would squeal delightedly when Rubeus would pick him up by the back of his clothes and carry him about.

It had always terrified their mother, seeing Rubeus carrying her youngest around like that but the shadowcat had never hurt Renly. And besides, he'd only started it when Renly'd gotten old enough to toddle around and potentially harm himself.

Without thought Ostara curls her fingers through the fur growing at the nape of Rubeus' neck and allows him to guide her along after the Queen.

~X~

 _I hate this_ , Ostara thinks as she stands in the courtyard among the men and women living in the Red Keep.

As the future princess of Westeros she's been placed beside Queen Rhaella, the black and gold of her gown standing out sharply beside the queen's ruby gown and black embroidery and against the mixed colors of the servants. At least she doesn't clash too terribly, at least she isn't the only person wearing gold. But still... She'd much rather be wearing something simpler. Something a bit more light weight.

Because it's just past mid day and the sun is beating down relentlessly upon everyone in the courtyard causing them to sweat and wilt in the heat. Ostara doesn't mind the sweating so much as she minds the fact that standing so still, with so many people around her, is staring to make her anxious. Which is starting to make Rubeus anxious. Which is a problem on all its own that Ostara doesn't have the time nor the patience to deal with.

The entire household, or a great deal of it, had piled out into the courtyard when one of the scouts had spotted the King'd procession making it's way toward the outskirts of King's Landing. Giving everyone just enough time to assume their places. Of course, no one took into account the fact that many of the small folk will be coming to see the procession, to welcome their King home, which will only slow everyone down.

Thankfully, Ostara's very good at keeping herself occupied.

She thinks about her Ladies-in-Waiting, all of whom will be arriving either tomorrow or in the short days after, and what they will be like. Brief letters had been exchanged of course. Ravens sent out with letters written in Ostara's own hand thanking the young women who would be leaving their home to join her in King's Landing.

Each raven had reached their destinations and returned with each girl's reply.

Alerie Hightower had seemed a bit timid but Ostara just chalked it up to the girl's nerves and made a note to speak with the girl privately, Dyanna Manwoody had seemed fiery in her reply and had even managed to coax a rueful smile out of Ostara because it sounded like something Ginny would have written to her and the reminder of the fiery haired Weasley had resulted in a dull sort of hurt, and Alysanne had gotten a good laugh out of Ostara after asking if she'd seen anyone else in the Red Keep of interest.

And Ostara can just imagine what Alysanne had meant by that.

The distant sharp clop of hooves has Ostara snapping to attention alongside every other man and woman in the courtyard. A minute later the first Kingsguard knight rides through the gate, then another, and other after that before the familiar face of Tywin Lannister appears. Ostara nods to the man when he meets her eye and turns away before anyone notices.

Good thing too, because the next person to ride in is Aerys Targaryen, Rhaegar right behind him. As one the men and women standing in the courtyard fall to their knees, all save Rhaella and Ostara to fall into the curtsies that their status as high born ladies dictates.

Ostara looks at the King from under her lashes and bites back a frown. The King looks terrible, he looks sick. His hair is greasy, there are dark smears beneath his eyes, his cheeks are follow, and he seems to fidget anxiously in his saddle. He looks nothing like the man she'd encountered at the Tourney in Lannisport. It's frightening. But Ostara, Hermione, knows all about post traumatic stress and the effects torture can have on a person. Whether that torture is physical or psychological doesn't really matter as the end result is the same.

When the King's feet hit the ground and he motions them to rise Rhaella offers him a sad, sweet smile and moves forward almost timidly.

"It is good to see you safely returned, my King."

The King's eyes flash with something fierce but it's gone in a flash and his mouth twists into something that might have been an attempt at a smile but is more a grimace. The smile and chaste kiss he places upon Rhaella's knuckles is the only response she gets before Aerys' eyes are on Ostara, who lowers her eyes respectfully and does not raise them until he has given her permission to.

"Your trip," He asks, voice hoarse, "was it hindered?"

"No, Your Grace, my journey from Storm's End was unhindered."

Aerys nods once, almost desperately, before gripping tight to Ostara's hand and bringing it up to his mouth so that he could press a kiss too it. The kiss lingers too long, Ostara notices that Rubeus has begun to stare at the king in the same manner he stares at his breakfast, but he doesn't move and Aerys drops her hand soon enough.

"I am glad to hear it, one can never know who their friends are... We Targaryens," Aerys' eyes narrow as they dart to Tywin and then to Rhaegar who has begun to walk toward them, frame tense like a bow string pulled taut, "we must protect one another, no?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

The King stares at her a moment longer before turning and disappearing into the Keep in a swirl of rich velvet and silk. Leaving the tension to slip out out of the men and women in the courtyard. Ostara glances at her shadowcat, sees him watching the path King Aerys took with too much focus, and carefully taps the side of his head. Not nearly hard enough to hurt him, let alone bother him, but just firmly enough to gain his attention. When his eyes are no longer following invisible people Ostara turns her attention to Rhaegar, who has stopped before her and is glancing at the beast sitting at her heel.

"Lady Ostara." He greets.

"Prince Rhaegar, I'm glad to see you're well."

"And I you," Rhaegar looks her over once before offering a tight lipped smile. "I hope you've settled well."

"Very well indeed, thank you."

Rhaegar's eyes drop to Rubeus, "Your pet is looking well."

"Yes," Ostara intones dryly, casting her familiar a look full of dark mirth. "He's near full grown. I suspect that with as much as the maids have spoiled him since our arrival he'll grow a fair bit more."

"He's an attractive beast."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Ostara doesn't know what to do. She feel highly uncomfortable with the idea of flirting, especially with her being not much older then a child, but she also doesn't want to sound like little more then a child because, in a sense, she isn't and she refuses to act as one. But how does one interact with a man who _thinks_ she's not much older then a child? Ostara's already seeing one of the faults in her whole plan to not tell anyone about magic.

Another problem comes when she realizes she can't pretend to be a child genius because most child geniuses, especially girl child geniuses, in this world would likely be considered to be one of three things, and those things include; odd, sickly, or something not quite human. All of which Ostara runs the risk of actually being considered because she is actually a witch. And an adult witch who's fought in, and won, a war who happens to be trapped in the body of a preteen.

But never let it be said that Ostara Baratheon never came up with a solution to her problems. She'd figure something out. Somehow she always does.

Ostara clasps her hands behind her back, realizing with a sort of distant horror that she'd forgotten to grab her wand. Suddenly the crowd around her seems oppressive, the soft murmuring of people returning to their tasks more of a roar in her ears. She needs to leave. Now. So she smiles as sweetly as she can with her heart beating almost painfully against her ribs and curtsies.

"Your Highness you must excuse me for keeping you," She tells Rhaegar, noticing the slight pinch of his brow as he watches her shift away form him. "I'm sure you must be terribly exhausted after such a journey. If you would pardon me, I'll leave you to your own devises."

"Your presence isn't nearly as tiresome as you'd think," Rhaegar admits, soft enough so no one can hear unless they're paying close attention but dryly enough to make Ostara's mouth twitch.

"All the same, I'd rather not remain in the courtyard all day."

With that said Ostara pivots on her heel and makes her way back toward the gardens because she's not going back to her rooms anytime soon. She passes Ser Arthur Dayne on her way, noticing the dark circles beneath his eyes and the amused eyebrow he raises as she walks by. She makes it all of three steps before Rhaegar Targaryen is falling into step beside her.

"If you don't wish to remain in the courtyard perhaps I might escort you somewhere else?"

Ostara glances at him and finds he's already looking at her. He's got lovely eyes, deep indigo framed by a thick curtain of black eyelashes. Many women would be fascinated with the color of his irises alone but when paired with the soft upward tilt of his eyes and the knowledgeable glint hidden there in... Well, Ostara doubts many women would stand much of a chance against Rhaegar Targaryen.

And despite not being like most women Ostara finds that she doesn't like the melancholy that flickers in her husband-to-be's eyes. So she nods slightly and takes his arm when he offers.

"I was planning on walking through the gardens."

Rhaegar bows his head causing the silver hair fluttering down his back to shift and catch in the light. It looks incredibly soft. Ostara thinks she could run her fingers through it and never catch on a knot, unlike her hair, which tangles and frizzes with the intensity of her magic. It's only gotten worse since the dragons have linked themselves to her.

With a soft sigh of irritation, mostly directed at herself, Ostara allows the Prince to lead her to her destination. Neither of them really talk and it's fine, it's comfortable. More comfortable then Ostara expected it to be, really. She likes how calm Rhaegar is, how relaxed he is even after so many days on the road and whatever he'd witnessed while in Duskendale.

Ostara bites her lip to keep from frowning at the thought of it. She'd heard about what happened, how the Lady Serala Duskendale had her tongue and womanly parts torn out before she'd been burned at the stake. It'd been cruel, unnecessarily so, and Ostara will never condone the King's decision to torture that woman. Even if she'd been the reason behind the King's imprisonment... Ostara flexes the fingers of her left hand, a phantom pain shooting up and down her arm as Rhaegar guides her into the gardens.


	22. Chapter 22

"Rubeus, to me." Her voice is sharp, similar to a whip snapping through the air when her beast gets to close to one of the courtiers wandering through the gardens.

The woman's eyes are wide and her hand trembles when she notices the curled lip of the shadowcat. Rhaegar thinks it odd as the beast had never shown any aggression while in his presence, but then he'd forgotten about the man he'd killed in defense of his mistress at Casterly Rock all those years ago. The pommel of his sword in oddly cold against his skin and Rhaegar dreads the idea of using it on the girl's pet.

Thankfully, the shadowcat is more mindful of his mistress then Rhaegar had thought for when she barks at him the great hulking mass of silver and black fur growls once more at the terrified courtier before loping back to stand between his mistress and the other woman.

"Thank you, uh... Yes, thank you, My Lady."

"Leave."

Green skirts swirl as the woman curtsies before rushing off down the path. Rhaegar watches her go, watches the gold embroidery in her skirts shimmer as she runs from them. Once she's out of sight Rhaegar turns his attention back to his bride-to-be, who is no longer watching the girl and is instead absently scratching her pet's head.

"She'd followed us from the fountain." She offers, already stepping away from her beast to begin making her way down the path.

"How do you know this?"

This time she looks at him, eyes just as dark and lively as the last time he'd seen her, Rhaegar thinks she might be vaguely disappointed in him. He doesn't understand why _that_ bothers him so much but it does. More then her beast nearly attacking an innocent woman, or perhaps not so innocent considering she's a courtier of the Red Keep, and certainly more then when she'd tried to run from him not even an hour ago.

Because that's what she'd been trying to do. Run. Rhaegar doesn't exactly blame her, whatever his father must have said to her couldn't have been pleasant. Unfortunately, he'd been too far away to hear much of their conversation and therefore to far away to stop it from happening altogether.

"Rubeus started acting oddly just after we'd left it." Ostara remarks rather blandly causing Rhaegar to glance at the great beast.

His ears are no longer twitching, there's no more tension in his spine, he looks as he looked when Rhaegar saw him that first time at the beach in Lannisport. Why Rhaegar hadn't noticed it before is a mystery to him as he likes to think himself incredibly perceptive.

"That's quite the name," Rhaegar finds it's easier to talk about the shadowcat currently padding along ahead of them instead of her indifference. "Where did you come up with it?"

Ostara casts him a glance full of conflict before she says, "When I was young I found Rubeus and ever the impulsive child I took him home. After father said that I may keep him I might have asked for a collar of rubies."

"Might have?"

Her smile seems too practiced, it makes Rhaegar wonder if she's lying. But what reason would she have to lie about a name? Rhaegar chooses to ignore the little thought that crosses his mind for the briefest of seconds, instead giving the girl his full attention.

"As I said, I was an impulsive child and Robert certainly never discouraged such behavior. Of course, a collar full of rubies would have been incredibly impractical so my father told me no. I named him Rubues instead."

"You named him after rubies?"

This time she pauses before replying with a soft, "Yes, what else would I have named him for?"

"It's just as good a name as any." Rhaegar remarks pleasantly, placating, soothing.

Her responding smile is a soft thing that eases the tension in her face a bit.

"Robert teased me for it quite often when we were younger. He always said that it was a foolish name to give a shadowcat."

"And what would Robert have had you call it?"

"Something silly I'm sure," the girl says impishly. "It couldn't have been much worse then Thunderclap, which was the name he bestowed upon his gyrfalcon, but it wouldn't have been better either."

There is a fondness in her tone that makes Rhaegar ache. He'd never had siblings in his youth, older or younger or the same age as him, and so he'd grown into adulthood without the arguments, taunts, and rivalry common among siblings... But he'd never had the fondness nor the joyful memories nor the inseparable bond that some siblings are wont to have either.

Viserys is a babe yet, he has not been presented to the court and he will forever be too young for Rhaegar to play with the way he might have had Rhaegar been closer in age to his little brother. So while there may be fond memories shared between them it will not be the same.

He's glad, at least, that Ostara has been able to do such with her siblings. To play, to jest, to pester. All things Rhaegar had done but never with someone of his own blood. Which is, perhaps, for the best. The idea of marrying a sister had never quite appealed to Rhaegar the way it appealed to his father and his father before him and fighting with a brother for the throne is even less appealing then marrying a sister.

"And Stannis? What were his thoughts on the matter?" Rhaegar finds himself asking.

"Stannis? Well, he didn't have much to say on the matter."

"I see." Rhaegar isn't all that surprised.

Of all his cousin Steffon's children Stannis is the most stoic, the quietest, the one closest to Ostara. Rhaegar had seen it when they'd visited King's Landing as children, then at some tourney hosted by Lord Steffon, and again at Lannisport. Quiet and severe Stannis Baratheon may be but Rhaegar doubts he hadn't done anything to Robert for any perceived wrongdoing on the older boy's part. Not having anything to say on a matter never means there isn't something you can't do about it.

Rhaegar shakes the thoughts of siblings from his mind, not willing to find out where they might lead in regards to his future. He's had enough thoughts about his future to know that allowing himself to bother with them now would do nothing to help him in his effort to form at least a friendship with the girl that will be his bride when she comes of age. He knows enough about women and girls to know that sputtering about demons and war and darkness does nothing to soothe them.

So he smiles charmingly at his bride-to-be, laughing when she makes jokes (she's surprisingly humorous and Rhaegar is relieved, for who would want to live their life with someone lacking humor), and guiding her when she admits to know knowing the gardens well enough to chose her own paths. It's quiet, peaceful, Rhaegar does not feel the weight of his duty quite so fiercely when he is speaking with Ostara.

A relief, especially when his duty tends to make itself all the more apparent the longer he remains in the Red Keep.

~X~

In his dreams, fickle things that they are, Rhaegar sees a land full of ice and snow where it's difficult to see through the haze of a winter storm. When he turns to glance behind him there is a shadow in the distance. A building perhaps? Somewhere he can take shelter? Deciding that it is best to seek shelter then stay out in the open Rhaegar begins the difficult task of walking through the snow.

But in his dreams he does not walk.

He flies, and the higher he goes the easier it is to see. And so up, up, up he soars until he is gliding over grey clouds and a world full of drab grey. It's thrilling, exhilarating, Rhaegar has only ever read of flying but if this is what it feels like he can understand why Rhaenys spent so much time on her dragon, so much time in the... A strong pulse of something hot and wild and just as primal as he is pulls his attention away from thoughts of his ancestors, his blood, his kin.

Without thought Rhaegar pulls his wings tight around him and allows himself to fall, a mighty roar leaving him as he plummets down, down, down. As he falls he catches sight of a small figure standing in the snow, calling out without speaking but Rhaegar can still hear her. _Mother_. The thought is not his own but it is so fierce that Rhaegar will never question it, never doubt it.

 _Mother, you've called for me._

He can see the woman now, perhaps not as clearly through the haze but he can see the wildness of her hair and the sharp, wicked curve of her mouth. His wings snap out, catching him before his body smacks into the earth and carries him toward the woman who's begun walking toward him. Walking, then running, then sprinting through the snow.

 _Mother, command me._

Speaking, she's speaking but her mouth does not move. It's no matter, the-beast-that-isn't-Rhaegar understands her just fine. Heat pools somewhere in his chest before rising up, up, up to spew from his mouth in a twist of blues and whites and a bit of red. It's then that he realizes that the snow falling around him is not snow. It's ash, so much ash that it covers the land and falls from the sky and blocks out the sun.

The only light coming from his flame and the woman who has stepped through the flames toward him, only stopping when she's close enough to place one slender hand upon his jaw. But it is not the affection of the touch nor the calming words spilling from her lips that causes Rhaegar to but instead it is the eyes. Sharp and purple and shining fiercely in a face covered in ash and blood.

Rhaegar screams her name and the world turns to blackness.

~X~

 _Dragon dreams_ , Rhaegar thinks as he flips through one of his ancestor's journals, _I wish to learn more of dragon dreams._

It is known that dragon dreams have come to those with the blood of the dragons. Many of his ancestors were plagued with the dreams, sometimes good came from it as is the case with Daenys the Dreamer, and yet other times... Rhaegar does not want to think of those times.

He _cannot_ think of those times when the dragon dreams brought nothing but death and destruction to his house.

Rhaegar wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, or grind his teeth. He wants to do something other then sit in the library with Arthur's eyes on him and wonder why the fuck he's been dreaming about dragons and Ostara. This is not the first time he's dreamed of her either, now that he thinks about it Rhaegar can recall at least two other times he dreamed of her.

Once at Lannisport, he'd dreamed of white light and Ostara and... And... And Rhaegar thinks there might have been someone else too. Someone important for his mind screams at him to remember something he simply cannot. He hadn't remembered the dream at first, or perhaps if he did he merely brushed it off and forgot about it, but the longer he thinks the more he remembers.

There was a time, once when he was a little boy before Ostara was even a thought to her parents, that Rhaegar dreamed of a woman with soft hands brushing back his hair. He'd asked her when father would return, in a voice voice higher and lighter then his own, and the purple eyed woman with the swollen middle had merely smiled and told him to sleep. That everything would be alright in the morning. That she would never let anyone hurt him.

Rhaegar knows that the dreams can show the past or the future or perhaps even the present. The dreams show whatever must be seen and it is up to the dreamer to decide how to act.

So does that mean he'd dreamed of Ostara and her child? Their child? And if he had dreamed of them could it mean that the forgotten person in his other dream could have been their child as well?

So many questions, so many question and so few answers.

"Are you unwell, Your Highness?" Aruthur inquires, brows furrowed.

"Yes, Arthur, I'm quite alright," He promises as he closes the journal and sets it aside. "Do you have plans for this evening?"

The furrow disappears as Arthur smirks, "Feeling restless?"

"Something like that."

"Hm, well I'm to guard your mother this evening. Perhaps tomorrow? I hear Lady Ostara's first Lady-in-Waiting will be arriving tomorrow afternoon."

 _Ah yes, Dyanna Manwoody._

"Right, then I suppose you'll be guarding me tomorrow."

"If that's what you want." Arthur says.

He'll be switching his guard duties with Ser Barristan or so Rhaegar assumes, either way Arthur will be guarding him tomorrow evening and that's all Rhaegar asks for. Sneaking out is easier with Arthur because the knight doesn't ask questions or report back to his father or warn Rhaegar against his trips to visit the common folk. It's the only true way to escape his duties and the eyes of the servants, the only true way to find out what the people think of their rulers.

Rhaegar has been sneaking out to Flea Bottom for years now. He knows which tunnels lead where and the guard rotations and who can be persuaded to keep their mouths shut and who will run off to whisper into Varys' ear. Speaking of Varys, Rhaegar needs to speak with him soon. Varys always seems to know what people King's Landing, in the whole of Westeros really, do when they think no one is watching.

But would asking Varys to tell him about Ostara be too far? Would it be inappropriate? She's a girl, after all, and while she's a bit of an odd girl she's hardly dangerous. Rhaegar sighs and turns to his friend.

"May i ask you something, Arthur?" Rhaegar asks, voice low so that no one else can hear them.

"Of course."

"What is your personal opinion of Ostara Baratheon?"

Something passes over Arthur's face. Exasperation perhaps?

"Your Highness, I don't think it approp-"

"I'm asking for your personal opinion, Arthur... I'll not have you killed for it."

Arthur sighs, that pinched look he gets when he's annoyed briefly painting his features before he settles his face into something neutral.

"I think that the Lady Ostara is too smart for her own good. It'll get her killed if she's not careful."

"How do you mean?"

"Well it's... Hard to explain... There's an air about her, I suppose, that makes me think she knows more then she's letting on. When she tried to leave the courtyard yesterday, you remember that yes?" Rhaegar nods. "Well, she seemed agitated and I don't think it had anything to do with you or the King."

Rhaegar frowns, "Thank you, Arthur."

"May I speak freely, Your Highness?" Arthur asks.

"Of course you may, Arthur."

The knight licks his bottom lip, a nervous habit he's never quite been able to shake. "Perhaps you should at least attempt to know her before you begin plotting, hmm?"

"I'm not _plotting_." Rhaegar retorts, vaguely affronted.

"Scheming then. Whatever you want to call it, Rhaegar, talking to Varys is perhaps not your best idea? Most of what he knows is based on whispers from others and we all know how easily coin changes one's story."

Rhaegar offers a curt nod, angry with himself for being so predictable and annoyed with Arthur for being so close to him that the other knight knows what Rhaegar's plans are without having to be told. It's a bother to say the least but... Well, Arthur has never intentionally mislead Rhaegar. It might not mean much in a place like King's Landing but it means something to Rhaegar.

Or rather, it means enough that the plan to talk to Varys is set aside for the moment as Rhaegar figures out another way to sort out his dreams and Ostara's place in them.

~X~

"You're not very good at sneaking, are you?" Ostara asks causing every muscle in Rhaegar's shoulders to tense.

Beside him Arthur sucks in a breath, turning to stare at the girl who's caught them only a quarter of the way to their destination. Rhaegar follows, turning to stare at Ostara and finding his breath catching in his throat. It is not a pleasant feeling. Because she's wearing a boy's clothes and her hair is unbound and she looks every inch the girl she is but her eyebrow is raised and her eyes are... Is she ashamed?

"Good evening, Lady Ostara." Arthur greets.

"Ser Dayne, perhaps the next time you two attempt to sneak out of the Keep you do so a bit more quietly? Your disguises wouldn't fool anyone who's ever seen you before tonight."

Oh yes, that is disappointment.

Rhaegar feels a bit like a child being scolded for doing something naughty.

"Are you alone, Lady Ostara?" Rhaegar asks, hoping to shift the topic toward her and away from himself.

"Of course not, Rubeus is around." She says with an exasperated huff.

That is incredibly ominous and Rhaegar doesn't like the implications. Neither does Arthur if the tension in his jaw is anything to go by. But the shadowcat would not hurt them would he? Surely not... Not unless Ostara commanded him to. So perhaps the real question is whether Ostara would call her beast to harm them or not. Rhaegar doubts she would.

Disappointed she may be but there's no anger, no rage in her.

It's almost worse that way.

"Well, you'd best be off then. If you linger you'll be caught." Then she's turning on her heel and walking back toward the keep, the steady thump of feet hitting the ground signalling that somewhere in the darkness around them her beast is following.

"Perhaps Arthur should escort you back." Rhaegar suggests which earns him a snort from the girl.

She turns to look at them both, hands on her hips and mouth pressed into a line, looking every bit the authoritarian Barristan looks when he's irritated with the other guards.

"Just go, and stay away from stables. There are three guards playing dice and while I'm sure you could probably convince them to keep your trip secret I doubt you'd want to risk it."

Then she's walking away, disappearing into the Keep without so much as another word or look at them. It leaves Rhaegar feeling unstable, like he's done something incredibly unbecoming which, yes, in a way he has. Sneaking about isn't exactly something Princes are supposed to do and guards are certainly not supposed to encourage them which is what Arthur's doing... But for some reason he doesn't think Ostara's upset with him for sneaking out of the Keep.

And it's the uncertainty that has Rhaegar's head pounding by the time he and Arthur return from Flea Bottom early the next morning.

~X~

A hand comes into his view, holding a vial of something opaque.

It's Ostara, standing beside him at his usual table in the library with one eyebrow raised and a faint amusement coloring her features.

"I figured you might need it so I summoned Maester Pycell and told him I was feeling unwell. I should probably return to my chambers before anyone realizes I've left." She says, hand still outstretched.

And Rhaegar's head pounds as he takes the medicine from her.

"Thank you." He whispers, anything much louder would have caused too much noise for his senses at the moment.

He hadn't meant to drink as much as he had last night, truly he hadn't. But one mug of ale had turned to two then three then four and then he and Arthur had slipped off to another tavern where they ordered more ale because it would have looked strange for two men to come in and _not_ drink.

"Of course, if you need anything else let me know. I'm certain Pycelle would jump at the chance to serve." Ostara's tone is laughing, much different from the tone she'd used the night before, and then she's walking away from him and Rhaegar doesn't think to stop her until she's gone.

But the vial is warm in his hand and the medicine bitter on his tongue and Rhaegar thinks that he doesn't like the thought of Pycelle being alone with Ostara. Not one bit. Not at all. Especially when Rhaegar knows of Pycelle's fondness for young Ladies with pretty smiles and sweet voices. His fingers curl and clench, clench, clench around the vial until the sound of glass beginning to crack causes him to relax his grip. He'll deal with Pycelle once his head stops pounding.


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey Guys,**

 **I'm just letting you know that I'm re-doing this story. I won't be changing much although there will be some changes that I think will benefit the story a bit better. I'd also like to go back and establish things that should have been established early on in this story but weren't. The rewrite is really jsut me making New Gods Rising about a thousand times better.** **Aside from some changes everything is still going to be the same-ish. It's the same story with the same plot line it's just being made better in my opinion.**

 **I'll be leaving this story up until I've caught the new version up to the same point we're at now in New Gods Rising so none of you have to worry about me taking it down for a while yet, if I decide to take it down at all.**

 **The new version is titled _Drown Yourself in Glory_ and it's been posted already so I'd really appreciate it if everyone would go and favorite/follow it and review it. **

**Thanks,**

 **Rorry**


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